Things don’t get better
They get worn
Burred edges
Buttered soft
With age.

From the first quickening
To the last sigh
We are slowly
S l o w i n g  d o w n
And our poisons
Once a gaffer’s
Lung-full
Peter out
Until they are as shriveled
As drowned balloons
Leaving us to
Wonder
What we were
So angry at
To start with.