Senescence - May 23 2026

 

Senescence 

May 23 2026



You don’t see the body wasting.

The bones losing strength,

muscles thinning

as their cells die in place,

and organs nestled in fat

under fish-belly skin

that’s pale and pudding soft.

But the human brain is a curious thing,

and at all cost

the failing body protects it.

Even a man in his 80s

can remain sharp and questioning.

His scarecrow hands

with papery skin

stretched over spindly bones

and knotted veins

 — sun-damaged skin

spotted like ripe bananas, beginning to rot —

can still grip a pen

as firmly as ever.

Ink on paper, as he’s always done,

so the mind and hand

are directly in touch.

But there comes a point

when one notices

as if it happened overnight.

When he looks in the mirror

 — which he usually does

fully clothed — 

and sees an elderly man

gazing back at him.

Like bankruptcy

it happens slowly, then all at once;

the waist expands

the torso bloats,

while arms and legs are toothpicks

stuck in a comical body

a child might draw

for kindergarten art.

His machinery is running down

as if programmed for death.

The vanity and pride

we all indulge

 — discreetly

at least back when we were young

and it was thought unmanly to be vain —

left him long ago.

And he’s starting to feel alone

as friend after friend departs,

breezily forgotten

by a world he once bestrode.

But what he’s writing won’t.

His prose, still as strong as ever,

his mind

vital to the end.

I envy and admire him.

I doubt my final book

will be written in my 80s,

when, I suspect

I will have given up on changing the world 

or believing my voice will be heard,

will probably not even care

what comes next.

When I will be propped-up in bed

in the nursing home

with drool down my chin;

unable to lift a pen,

perhaps impatient for death,

and content to let the world

fend for itself.

The late great Barney Frank recently died. I read a short memorial written by a lifelong friend of the ex-Congressman, and was impressed not just that in his final weeks he finished his last book, but that — age notwithstanding — his fierce conviction, passion, and engagement burned as bright as ever. 

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/2026/05/barney-frank-obituary-democrats/687285/

I’m younger and not on my deathbed. Yet I already feel a kind of nihilism toward the future:  between our laughably tragic geopolitics and the complacency toward the climate emergency (I could go on, so much is wrong these days) I’ve largely given up. The thinking is I’ll be gone soon enough; hopefully, soon enough to escape a catastrophic future. I’m certainly under no illusion my words can change anything. 

So I both admire and envy Frank’s sense of agency and commitment. Too bad failing bodies betray still vital brains. Not to mention the unfortunate persistence of ageism:  that the wisdom of the old tends to be ignored – even scorned -- in a youth obsessed culture.

A stylistic note. I’m told that extensive use of the “m-dash” is supposed to be evidence of an AI ghostwriter. As you can see, I love m-dashes and semicolons. Yet I never use AI to write for me. Why would I, when I feel I write better than any AI, not to mention love to write? (I do, however, use it to scrape the internet for research, which is a great saver of both time and frustration). So at the risk of looking like an AI plagiarist, I will continue to use the punctuation I prefer.

In Loving Memory - May 23 2026

 

In Loving Memory

May 23 2026

It’s an average day

at a mediocre job

in a good enough life.

Who achieves greatness, after all?

Shouldn’t we be grateful enough

to simply muddle through,

knowing

that it could always be worse?

Is the accident of birth to blame,

of is it a failure

of moral agency

and personal choice?

And how much does luck play

in who wins and loses?

Because maybe self-made men aren’t so self-made;

they simply deceive themselves 

by taking credit,

self-righteously preaching

about the work ethic

and getting what you deserve.

Or is greatness over-rated

from the get-go?

Celebrity certainly is.

Great wealth seems desirable,

but according to the tabloids

they’re no happier than us.

While politicians

are just crabs in a bucket,

scrambling over each other

to get to the top;

crustaceans with ambition

and the biggest claws.

While athletes can be great

until they’re not,

and scientists toil away

and do great things,

but are too immersed

in their consequential work 

to ever preen or swagger.

I push paper,

watch the clock,

look busy

when the boss passes by.

My accomplishments are modest

to say the most.

But I go home

to my average kids and loving wife

and feel good.

The dog is thrilled

the moment I enter,

wagging her tail and jumping up

(I admit, badly trained

but easy to love).

The bungalow’s perfectly fine

if a little run down,

and the food on the table

is good enough

to get up satisfied;

could a rich man eat much more?

The bills get paid and chores get done,

and life goes on   . . . until it doesn’t.

The ordinary lives of ordinary people.

Not what we read about in books.

Not how we imagined it would be

back in middle school.

Not even when we were cut

from the junior wrestling team,

or were sure that our date

at the school dance

felt she was settling.

After all, we also felt that way;

disappointment

beginning early 

and learned pretty well.

Nevertheless, our epitaph will say

in loving memory

and that will be great enough;

to have loved, and be loved

and remembered for awhile.

It felt rather out of the blue when the first three lines came together. But I thought it was a promising beginning, and let the words keep coming. Only when I finished did I piece together where in the world this came from. 

First, there was a New Yorker piece I had just read, written by Joshua Rothman and with the self-explanatory title: WHY IS IT SO HARD TO BE ORDINARY? (It’s what most of us are, most of the time. Shouldn’t it be enough?) . . . Yes, in retrospect, hardly a mystery!

Second, there was a personal essay in the Globe I’d read much earlier. It was about walking in cemeteries, and the author commented on some of the inscriptions she encountered. It popped out of my subconscious at just the right time to give me what must seem like the perfectly premeditated ending to this poem. 

When considering this idea of averageness, I can’t help but think of Garrison Keillor’s take on statistical impossibility when he describes his fictional home town of Lake Wobegon with his familiar catchphrase: “Where all the women are strong  …the men are good-looking  …and the children are above average.” 

The Last Punch I Threw - May 19 2026

 

The Last Punch I Threw

May 19 2026

They say bullies are cowards

punching down instead of up.

The last punch I threw

was in grade school

at recess

over who-knows-what.

Really, I have no idea,

because the red hot righteousness

that blazed in my eyes that day

means nothing now;

time heals,

life goes on.

No bullying

just a childish argument.

And not long after, we became friends.

Most of us

eventually learn to problem solve

without black eyes

or the shedding of blood.

But grown-up bullies

have learned to be more subtle,

fighting with words, not fists.

This way, they keep their distance

  — not willing to risk

the actual human connection

that, God forbid

could lead to empathy.

But they’re as insecure as ever

and pick their victims carefully,

the more defenceless, the better. 

They seek out weakness

like heat-seeking missiles,

honing in

on soft underbellies

and open hearts.

Good to know

that a punch to the nose

will cow a bully

who’s never been hit before,

that one rhetorical uppercut 

will shut them up for good.

I can’t remember who won

if anyone did.

Probably him.

A schoolyard tussle

with grass-stained pants and bruised knuckles

in a circle of kids,

urging us on

like loutish gawkers

at a drunken barroom brawl.

I called it a schoolyard fight.

I said I wasn’t bullied.

But honestly, you have to wonder

when you look for the bully

and there isn't one to be seen,

could the bully have been me?

Social media, of course, is a field day for bullies. Or perhaps brings out the bully in all of us. There’s anonymity, which brings freedom from accountability. There is the escalation of language without consequence. There is the pressure to signal virtue, seek belonging and acceptance, for the powerless to feel effective,  or to simply feel seen. Or just plain vent.

But this didn’t begin as a commentary on the poisonous discourse of the internet. I’m not even on social media. It actually began with Donald Trump (a man I clearly loathe, and find myself embarrassingly preoccupied by): a bully with people less powerful, but before those he envies or fears — strongmen like Putin and Xi — he flatters and scrapes and concedes. He is a classic bully and inveterate coward, punching down instead of up. Of course, he uses words. The fat strutting fuck would fold in any actual fight.

The ending of the poem is meant to be provocative, not autobiographical. After all, I was a shy loner with a hot temper, and anyway, he was way bigger than me.  . . . Rocco, if you’re out there, get in touch!

Lovers No Longer Walk - May 18 2026

 

Lovers No Longer Walk

May 18 2026

The park is quiet

a little after dark

as rain clouds threaten

and the wind picks up.

The picnickers are gone.

Leaving only the ants,

an army 

of battle-hardened scavengers

scurrying through the grass

in all-black camouflage. 

Along with some trash

tossed haphazardly 

as one naturally does.

KFC

that slipped half-eaten

from little toddlers’ greasy hands,

distracted kids

who keep wandering off by themselves.

And watermelon rinds

littering the grass,

half-eaten

so they grin like rictus smiles

missing bad teeth;

organic waste

so it must be OK

to let the earth reclaim them.

Half-smoked butts

uncrushed

lie scattered on the ground,

flicked away still lit

and left to smoulder there.

Their lipstick stained filtertips

seem unseemly, somehow;

like a beautiful woman

with a croupy cough

hacking up phlegm,

or makeup

laid-on too thick.

What story do they tell

of secret trysts and hissy fits

and final bitter words?

The sounds of laughter

and family squabbles

have exhausted themselves;

fanning out in waves

through the cooling air

until eventually flattening out;

If only the sour taste

of sibling rivalry

could as easily be erased. 

No one plays

on the safety-first slides

judgment-free climbing walls

and equal access monkey bars

made from local wood.

No parents hover,

no shy kids look on

as if their noses

were pressed against the glass.

Against their nature

the swings hang still as plumb lines;

vacant seats

open to all comers

but not in any rush.

 

Their landing pits

are well dug-in

to the well-trampled grass.

So it’s easy to see

where bored teens

end up killing time;

hanging out ironically, of course,

but with a tinge of nostalgia

they’d never admit.

Where they swing languidly

passing a doobie hand to hand,

trailing their feet through the dirt

and gazing dreamily up.

The frisbees and dogs have gone.

Lovers no longer walk

arm-in-arm.

While the skateboarders have rumbled off

to who knows where,

leaving the walkways safe

for little old ladies

and moms with babies in fancy prams

as big as compact cars

and costing almost as much.

So when the rain comes, there will be only me,

walking by myself

in raincoat and galoshes

and bright yellow hat

leaking water down my neck,

muttering under my breath

about the state of the world

and the wreck we’ve made of it.

About bad weather

that somehow suits my temperament.

And about the garbage they left

in a sodden mess

crumpled on the ground.

I suppose how one deals with existential despair that feels overwhelming:  focusing in on something manageable. But also blowing up in a way that raises eyebrows, seeming out of proportion to the relatively minor provocation. Here, my patience is frayed: I’m annoyed, curmudgeonly, keen to complain, and — it seems — bothered by everything. In short, not that far from the truth, lol!

When my mother attained a certain age, as well as a level of acceptance, she not only let the grey in her hair show, but started unabashedly calling herself a “little old lady”. So a small nod to her. (In the poem, it was “wobbly old ladies” before I couldn’t resist changing it.)

I quite enjoyed the image of cool teens on the swing set “hanging out ironically” as they swung slowly back and forth, leaning back and stinking of pot.  … Nothing I haven’t seen myself!

Ice Age - May 16 2026

 

Ice Age

May 16 2026

Winter lingers

in the mountain of snow

where the plow stopped,

deposited

in front of a tall line of trees

that still block the strengthening sun.

Walking by

on a warm spring day

I feel the cold coming off it;

like the sudden chill

when a ghost enters the room.

Of course, there’s nothing malevolent

in a pile of snow

   . . . but still

I feel a shiver up my spine.

A small pool of water

sits on the downstream side.

Like glacial melt, it’s cold as ice,

and like a mountain tarn

reflects the sky;

as unsettled as the weather 

this time of year.

But fresh as it is, it’s also fossilized.

Not for millennia

but at least several months,

arresting time

and preserving the remains

of a hard winter

that's clinging to life;

one I hardly need reminding of

in this season of rebirth.

Like an archeological dig

it gives up its secrets

layer-by-layer.

Gravel mixed with sand,

stripped from the driveway

and scattered like glacial moraine.

Autumn leaves

that are waterlogged

and the drabbest brown there is.

Downed branches

lost mitts

dead birds,

and some hand-written papers

with painful news

that were snatched by a gust of wind.

Water, 

that will percolate through the soil

and work its way down fissures

in subterranean rock

to some deep dark aquifer,

finding its level

as water inexorably does.

Where it might remain for years

before being drawn up

in some future spring;

an envoy from the past

nourishing

the nascent plants.

Water,

changing phases but conserved;

indestructible as energy

and as indifferent to time

as we wish we were.

It’s May 16, and that dense pile of snow is — remarkably — still there. Although I’ve been looking at it out the kitchen window for so long it’s begun to seem normal! (I'm actually transcribing this poem on May 23, and the pile is still there: smaller, but cold and overcast enough it hasn't completely melted.)

Something that’s become so familiar deserves to be memorialized in a poem. So I began by describing it, and then — as usual — just riffed. Where it took me was unplanned: as much a surprise to me as I imagine to the reader. But this is the nature of water. It flows where it flows. And, of course, is conserved. The water cycle, but expressed a little less dryly than your middle school science teacher would!

(I only know the word “tarn” because my neighbour’s dog was named that. (An avalanche rescue dog (retired), so it makes sense.) I could have used “lake” instead:  less obscure, but also less interesting.  And also seems too big.)

See For Yourself - May 15 2026

 

See For Yourself

May 15 2026

    Pay attention.

    Be astonished.

    Tell about it.*

I try to pay attention;

attending to things

and bearing the cost.

Because there’s only so much I can afford

in my one precious life.

Mary Oliver exhorted us

to be astonished as well.

But it’s hard to go through life

in a constant state of astonishment.

Easy when you’re young,

not so much

when you’ve lived long enough

to become jaded and cynical

or simply bored.

Distractions tempt me.

Attention thieves

try to take more than I can give.

Anxiety

and the dire state of the world

rob me of focus.

So I narrow my gaze

and work at being intentional. 

After all, it’s spring

and life’s reawakening.

The air is sharp

with the loamy smell

of freshly thawed earth,

birds sing

when the first hint of dawn

has barely softened the sky,

and squirrels squabble over who-knows-what

after their long winter torpor

of blessed quiet.

  . . . But then, aren’t they always bad-tempered

in their short frenetic lives?

Nattering incessantly

as they dash through the trees.

Taking pleasure

in tormenting the dogs,

cat-calling

from their lofty perches

like hecklers at a wrestling match.

And pilfering food

distrustful neighbours

have surreptitiously cached.

I squish and squelch over soggy ground

skirting the really wet spots.

Pause

and take a slow deep breath.

The sun is high

and the trees, still bare, cast short shadows.

Buds, set last fall, are tightly furled;

too cold a spring

to have yet leafed out.

There are fresh scars

where winter culled the weak branches

and took out the dead.

I crane my neck,

narrowing my eyes

to make out the high ones,

etched against

a brightly rinsed sky.

“Sky-blue”, I want to say;

not because I’m at a loss

but because presence is everything,

and words — at best — approximate

so why even try?

Which even a poet

as fine as Mary Oliver

might say;

for me to truly tell

you must look up

and see for yourself.

*Mary Oliver wrote this — when she was 80 — in a poem called Instruction for Living a Life:  wisdom, informed by age. Three basic things (basic, but maybe not “simple”, as I initially wrote), and exactly what a good poet does. If only I could write something so restrained, so tight, and so perfectly crystallized!

I also paid homage to (a nice way to say “stole from”!) Mary Oliver when I wrote in my one precious life (5th line). I think this sentence, with which she ends the poem The Summer Day, is her most well known: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Stairwell - May 12 2026

 

Stairwell

May 15 2026



I make a point of climbing stairs.

Wherever

and however treacherous;

uneven risers,

trip-wire edges,

slippery treads and all.

The stairwells are like afterthoughts

architects can’t be bothered with;

cold, and dimly lit

with cinder-block walls

and cheap plastic bannisters

sticky as a toddler’s hands

but I’m sure with something worse.

Landings

  —  where drug deals are done

and tipsy drunks

slump against the wall  —

are littered with butts

and have a sour smell;

a toxic mix

of piss

human sweat 

and cigarettes,

sitting heavily 

in the stagnant air

my motion has grudgingly stirred.

But I persist,

because elevators are decadent

and exercise is virtuous.

So I race up the stairs

footsteps echoing

off the hard glossy walls,

pivot around the landings

like an antsy monkey

swinging branch-to-branch,

then heave open the fire-door

and arrive at my floor

grinning triumphantly. 

And finally, stand by the elevator

waiting for my friends

while trying to look unrushed;

wiping the sweat from my brow,

running a hand through my hair,

and wind-milling my arms

to air myself out.

First 

in a race

where no one else is keeping score,

or even knows

they took part.

The Trip of a Lifetime - May 12 2026

 

The Trip of a Lifetime

May 12 2026

I think of the many people 

I might have been.

The forks in the road

I could have taken.

The intersections I sailed through

too keen on making time.

The turns I missed

and the rutted lanes, too tempting to resist

I abandoned soon enough,

reversing in a cloud of dust

with one hand on the wheel.

As if life was a road trip

without good maps

or sense of direction.

Looking back, of course, it would seem to add up;

like connecting random dots

and imagining a picture

even when there’s not.

Because where some see scattered stars

others find constellations

   . . . despite celestial navigation

not working that way.

The narratives we construct

to explain ourselves

are like the old paper maps

that fanned out like accordions;

awkward to hold

and blocking the view.

That became crumpled and faded and hard to read,

stained

from gas station coffee

that was always too weak.

That eventually tore along the folds,

becoming almost as delicate 

as ancient manuscripts

  —  handled with kid-gloves

in a dimly lit museum

as a stern minder watched.

That were wadded together

in the glove box

or the pocket behind the seat,

bulging out

like an autobiography

of the trip of a lifetime

and disappointed plans.

That went with the car to the wreckers

and were crushed along with it.

No retracing your steps, or reminiscing;

no filling in 

all the places you missed,

or looking back

now wish you did.

A sentence in the 3rd last paragraph of this Atlantic article (link below) caught my eye. So I wrote it out, and just let myself riff. (And if you think there is some more esoteric process to my writing, you’re wrong. Endings are rarely foreseen. The journey takes me, not the other way around.)

“Surrendering to the computer had given him the courage to sample the lives of the many people he might have been.”

I suspect we all think this about the choices we made, or failed to make:  not only comparing ourselves retroactively to other possible versions of ourselves, but usually unsparingly to other actual people all the time. The fallacy, of course, is that we tend to idealize these hypothetical selves or unknowable lives (is their marriage really as happy as it looks?) — filling in the blanks with the best case scenario — while we are all too aware of the disappointing details of our own reality.

I did rescue a wad of old paper maps from the seat-back pocket before getting rid of my 20 year old Jeep. (20 years. Yes, I’m both stubborn and frugal. Not to mention find change hard.) Still have them, stuffed into the back of a high shelf in the entranceway closet.

Btw, I could never do what this guy did. Too limited. Too fixed in my ways. Too averse to change.

(https://www.theatlantic.com/family/2026/05/algorithm-decision-making-randomization/687098/?gift=7KKUTeeJruMo0n11oQFrLqSCBD0a1e191MC9ddobpds&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share)