This morning I noticed a ball
of brownish gray, soft and furry clump rolled
up like a hamster in my comb. And I wondered
if I should feed it or leave it alone. I couldn’t put

it back on head. I had to lay the thing
to rest. I noticed the numbers on my phone
haven’t been ringing, like the church bells tolling
the hour as they used to do. That old familiar twang

was comforting too. It sounds no more. The
incidentals drive me out of my mind, like my
keys when I need to leave in a hurry, or
the butter that’s melting somewhere

in this landscaped home of topiary. You’d think
it’d be easy to find; it’s brighter than
a yellow canary. If it grew wings it could
fly. Most of the people I know have died. That goes

with aging. You lose things more
easily. There are more funerals to attend. And
more broken hearts to mend. And many nights
awake when sleep itself escapes.