our emissions' stench unnoticed now but for a novel trail
this climacteric age, it's called,
the passing of decades
the half-century turning signal
turning yellow yellow
not green or red
approached
passed
ignored with our voices,
nightmare in our guts
deceit in our eyes
Hey everything is cool
clashing aches squabbling joints
the colors of the pills, like
seasons' imprints
shift.
Sizes,
like our swellings,
alter, fade, then gush
to a leak just damp
whines sighs shivers
dull, nearly mute moans
spread across our too-early evenings
I asked you what was wrong,
you mouthed "nothing," dismissing
my false alarm
with a withering of wrist
I was then reminded of your father's hands
and realized, in red, that
I never liked your father.
Valor not a virtue here,
the ride may hold interest still.
Frances LeMoine