Seniors   

by R. S. Gwynn

   
They always make a case that even the newsprint
Rubbing off on their fingers is a conspiracy,
Sleeping more than they need to, somehow knowing
They will not miss much.

Surrounded by broken Christmas balls and dentures,
So many dead dogs, so many photo albums,
They surely know whatever it is you’re after
But forget where they lost it.

They have to get up and shuffle around in sweaters 
That smell like old cigars, smoking cigars 
That smell like old sweaters. Wouldn’t they rather 
Stay in bed, eating cookies?

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