Falling behind

You can see us in corners, exchanging info
on remedies and cocktails for our aching joints,
(not all of us, remember the bicyclist in our midst).
We mutter about the stairs and sleep slopes
talk of our spouse’s gradual decline (or death).

And the flood swirls around us,
pouring up and down those stairs,
playing the magic music into the night
(Ah, we remember the intoxication
of music at two a.m.)
The youngest are deep in this enchanting game
and their most serious occupation.

We have stepped out of the river –
we cheerfully take part – until supper time –
but oh, if we could still catch fire!

Lari Smith