I try to brush my own hair in the morning,
but my hairline is escaping me,
like the truest feelings I’ve held for so long.
I’m falling.
I sit at the computer, with the ghost of computer light
reaching for my soul, while my daughter plays,
and she asks me existential questions,
like why am I old.
When will I die?
Today is a typical day.
My spirit tries to rend free from my body,
stripping off the bones and fleeing
into the August fields.
The tendrils of life that used to cling to me
are now clinging to it,
as it lurches in high bounds into tall beets,
and I stand staring out the window,
my reflection–a phantom of absence.
