This morning I crossed the border
into the world of old age. The guards
detained me, demanding to see my
AARP card before waving me through
They waved me through.
I know this is the right place,
because scattered all about me, to my
right, to my left, are all the lost
keys–the house keys, the car keys,
the school keys. Also the lost words I
can no longer recall, the sounds I
don’t hear, and the sounds I do hear
of creaking joints, or of bed springs
percussing through sleepless nights
when I dream of a body that still
I dream of the time when my
my children lived at home.
No, this is not a happy place.
I tell them I want to leave, but I’m told
that won’t be possible. I threaten to
organize a protest against Indignity. It’s
futile. The media black me out.
No, this is not an age or stage of life. Don't
bother telling me that. This is a nation, with
its own language and rules. You come, but
you don't leave.
It’s like Ellis Island without deportations.
Not a New World, but a world apart.