Old man

If I could lay my hands
on you, I’d scrub you pink
in a steaming tub of froth
then run my rough tongue
over your spine in steady strokes
with all the love and tenacity
of any mother cat.

Your ears sit closed,
the accumulated wax of decades
shutting me out until
my footsteps fade
with muffled thumps away
down the worn carpeted hall.
　
Rachel Westfall
November 6, 2010