The death poem

Fifty-nine stairs to the dock
will eventually splinter and weaken.
The old swing
is hanging by one frayed rope.

The dock will sink into whatever
fate the river offers,
and crab pots will rust
on an overgrown shore.

The cornfield will be cut
and the yard will no longer
witness late night games of kick
the can. The bench at the end
of the dock will wilt from solitude, the
absence of four generations.

The dining room table hides
under a layer of dust as the forty
faces at breakfast dwindle
to just fifteen
to just three
until no one remains.

A faded deck
of cards
abandoned on the table,
worn keys longing
for musical hands
too aged to play;

the same hands that created this sanctuary.

Grand Bid has already been torn away
and the dock has already begun to sway.
the fading memories,
the fading dreams,
the fading of the blessed aged.