Free
Verse
On
Growing Old
My heart races the
unfinished sprint.
Fingers curled but not in collapsed structures.
My blood not yet clotted cream.
Teeth not the most expensive
string of pearls.
But I do not want the black linted dress.
Put it back in the closet
or give it to someone else.
Throw me the scarlet one,
hanging over the green door.
I want to iron its creases—
wear it with ostrich feathers,
matching mules.
Take back the black one.
I don't like its funeral sleeves.
