We have unlimited amounts of older stuff.
It’s piled high as stacks of magazines
in grandpa’s house; through it wind byzantine
paths and walkways; the wheezing cats huff
and cough; the adult children cry enough’s
enough; the TV’s gone five years unseen;
the home health aid has said she will not clean
this utter dump—Lord, it is rough
to get old. The grandkids rarely come around.
The neighbors and the mailman spy and plot and scheme.
They won’t let you drive to the grocery store.
You do not know what makes that scratching sound
inside the walls; time passes as in a dream,
shortening, then lengthening, like war.