[Joe Crocker]

rev 1
Losing the plot

Now that I am old,
half deaf, unsighted, and forgetful,
I struggle to engage.

My hearing aid won’t help. It hisses
sibilants that camouflage the shape
of words I thought I knew.

My crouching cockeyed glasses see the distance out of true.
Wayward, they are looking to escape,
homesick for a settled point of view.

The list of things to do is curt and misses
out the things I used to do.

And jokes just laugh among themselves.
I do not ask them to explain their laughter.
That spark will not be worried after.

Often I am looked at like I’m odd.
I misjudge the tide, marooned or overwhelmed.
Often, yes, I simply smile and nod.

A wind is blowing way over my head.
I wonder what it brings:
the leavings from some far-off chatter,
nearer now, the hushing shadow
at the end of things.





Losing the plot.

Now that I am old,
half deaf, unsighted, and forgetful,
I struggle to engage.

My hearing aid won’t help. It hisses
sibilants that camouflage the shape
of words I thought I knew.

My crouching cockeyed glasses see the distance out of true.
Wayward, they are looking to escape,
homesick for a settled point of view.

The list of things to do is curt and misses
out the things I used to do.

And jokes just talk among themselves.
I do not ask them to explain their laughter.
That spark will not be worried after.

Often I am looked at like I’m odd.
I misjudge the tide, marooned or overwhelmed.
Often, yes, I simply smile and nod.

A wind is blowing way above my head.
I wonder what it brings:
the leavings from some far-off chatter,
nearer now, the hushing shadow
at the end of things.