Your children’s children will not speak of grandma’s possible
Iron lung, nor whisper rudely behind doors about the tan
Patina staining the spines of books and nubs of knuckles,
Nor will they shrink from those mucky glances that dart out
From behind another cigarette in the chain, while you,
Shrouded in a cantankerous funk, proclaim a horror of
Doctors and medicine despite the incomprehensible vowels
Of a persistent cough like the mating cry of a marine mammal.
This is what time has done; made strange and ridiculous these
dove-coloured plumes that only long for the days Marlene hung
From an unfiltered tip like a Siren from a cliff edge, precipitous
Fingers busy with ritual ennui. Like grandma! But for the mazy lines
Etched around your mouth, spidered with a dull lipstick past
Its best, thick like tar or a reel of film heavy with memories.