Let’s be old in the sun on the house
front porch; open the door, warped
by so many winters, and watch the cold
recede from coal-black streets; peer
at the vegetable garden the neighbour twines
and the wind un-twines out of spite; leave
the rusted kettle on the hob for tea
we’ll never know when we’ll get around
to drink – for life is short but immense
for the old; let’s very often say
the same things – because we are old and
they are true. I don’t want to be old
alone, even in the sun, nor do I want
you to be old with someone else. Let’s
be old together on the house porch –
if the kettle whistles, stay there, I’ll get it; don’t
cross the road for a friendly shadow,
I’ll bring you tea and your hat when I get back.