The critical dividing line is noise.
When crossed, some old folks
move away from it.
It is as if they want to practice
for the long eternal silence.
There is an audio
to the rhythms of life
But to escape the sounds
they gather in luxury
with others ancient one.
Care and feeding are not an effort.
Entertainment is organized
and nearly compulsory.
Symptoms are freely shared,
and are as contagious as the plague.
But it is very quiet as each wonders
who will be next to die
and hoping it won't be them.
The obit column reads
like their membership list
Here in my noisy neighborhood,
that is not a key question.
I will undoubtedly be the first to go.
So if I wake in the morning,
I can be assured that all others are safe.
It is my neighborhood watch.
It is as if I am a fuse
protecting the young and healthy.
So long as I don't burn out,
the neighborhood circuit is safe.
My old neighbors have moved on
one way or another
and their replacements have noisy children.
I am surrounded by the noise of play
with its shrill sounds of joy and
momentary pain.
Every sound is an old sound to me.
I made them with three brothers.
My children and friends made them.
I can sit with a glass of wine, listen,
and bring forth life memories
better than a photo album.
Somewhere in noisy Mexico City,
where the honking of horns
are a constant reminder of life,
I have an unknown colleague.
We are members of
This is My Time and Space Gang
so let us be.
I have practiced an argument for many years.
It is to be used when
my children suggest that I deserve
a quiet caring place.
The last line of my argument is:
Out of here?
Only feet first!