if I live to be 94 years old like your mother

do you think that I will expect to be treated

like a revered hotel guest

or will I live alone in a tiny room

with a folding couch bed and a hot plate

everything I own will fit on a couple of shelves

I’ll watch movies on a tiny screen

check for emails ten times a day

to see if anyone has thought of me

living on cans of soup and rye crackers

reading the large print version of Readers Digest

or listening to books on tape or whatever

they might be on at that time

perhaps I’ll gaze out the window all day watching the street for a happening of any sort

as a truck goes by I will wonder where it goes

and what it has inside, who it might be bringing

a package to, for what reason

will I remember today? or only some days

and if so, which ones will they be?

by then will I have lost my fear of dying

or will liein bed at night and wonder

if tomorrow I will wake up again

so I can spend another day like the last

not even caring anymore what it’s all for

or what it means whether or not I was revered

there in my mind’s hotel


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Filed under Photography, Poetry

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