I don't want to be this old
The fried crisp lips and
a neck with strings of
gobbled goop skin like
Christmas lights circle

the end of the days
like cookslices.  The
taglike things,

the straight hairs on my
chins, there are several,
poke into collars raw from
rubbing on butiful jewlry

I refrain my lament
Being 77 yars old
is like the inside
of a soup can
dried on the counter
corner for a week.

Caroline Shank
12.31.2023