Aging

Bodies bake in kitchen
And in crowding poem.

A poet’s wife bakes too
A skin  fruit ,head sun.

Poet is halo around age
Sprouting its silver hair

To shine a morning sun
By  an instant sarcasm.

A comedy misses tooth,
In a gap for death wind

Like the mountain pass
Letting in Hun invaders.

When the sounds come
From an aged flatulence

The lift gives dirty looks.
No need to trace origin.

You’ll miss their comedy.
Bodies make no sounds.

(remembering Dennis Johnson’s poem “quickly aging here”)

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