I want to become anciently old (you too most likely dear reader)

But do I really want to be old actually

When the time comes

It's a question and not a question

The way I imagine it

Wiry with pre-drying corpus

grating in the barky chest as if at any moment

I will start to chime and chatter under the ribcage

Already embalmed with arcanum and other ointments

The wine ever more sparingly the shrinking aftertaste

more and more coffee the abyss in my hollow brain rinsing

with short shots in the mugs

like leftovers salvation to stow away

But also in every little sorry spat

the inescapable reflection of the approaching demise

curvature of the womb eternally the wicker style chair

painful in the thighs as in an alcove

with too small a window and also

too here and there of light as if

finding old childhood nests are

balder ever the faithful also literally

curling remnants of yellowed paper

to leaf through one last time

and permanently fold them together

The parting takes on a different order

it no longer sees that well what

it actually started again

no more per se of denouements

The return of the great patience

like a cheese with holes but all holes filled

of lived life devoid of any appearance,

like the tediously fussy

sorting stamps with tweezers

in this shrill terminal

with its deaf and dumb waiting room