Old as the Hills

by Claire Scott

As time flies, we are becoming an old folks’ cliche,
although we may not be exactly having fun
with all the scowling doctors and ridiculous tests.
We think each other’s thoughts, no longer
needing words for moments to matter.

Thin and wiry, slightly stooped, like our sagging
front porch with its side by side Adirondack chairs,
red paint peeling like a summer sunburn.
Wisps of thin hair white as O’Keeffe’s bleached bones.
Edging toward eighty and androgyny in our Levis,
Eddie Bauer sweatshirts and seen–better–days sneakers.
Carbon copies we tell our kids, who have no idea what
we’re talking about. They say get Twitter accounts, watch
Apple TV, buy the latest iPhone. Get with the program.
They don’t understand. This is the program.

Restless nights tossed like stray stars. Looking for
a place of ease for an aching hip or a throbbing shoulder.
The first question of the day: did you sleep well?
No longer: what did you dream?
But we still dream. Don’t we? Dream?

We are becoming a cliché. All our eggs
in the frayed wicker basket we bought in Barcelona
a lifetime ago. We stay home most days in the rhythm
of the retired: green tea with The New York Times,
tentative walks around the block, carefully balancing
on walking sticks, long naps after lunch, a little laundry,
a little reading, the evening news before supper.
Get a life insist our kids. Take a senior cruise
to Alaska or an Amtrac to Seattle. You can’t judge
a book we say. The grass is never greener.

Now there is no gap between us
for sparks to fly across. We no longer want
surprises to startle. All that glitters is for magpies.
We live well within the lines of a child’s coloring book,
our relationship like the Nebraska plains
in the dim of winter. White on white.
Comfortable as old boots in the snow.