Public Republic

Becca Books

Photo: jurek d.

Fifty years here. Then all in one stroke…
My turn now. No help but to go.
I’m Old Folk.

Let me see, let me see. What will I need?
What does it mean when you’re even past need?

The one single thing I wish I could bring
Is the warming cup of feeling familiar.

But there’s many there will be worse off than I.
I’m not too ill to lend the helping hand;
Feed some, scold some that need to keep trying
To eat, to walk. Maybe we’ll sing.
I’ll hold the hands of those who can’t talk.

I’ll be the same. I’ll be okay….
But not to come home at the end of the day!

I’m going away, and I want to pack
         the slumpy old hug of my ancient mattress.
I’m going away, and I want to pack
         the slumpy old hug of my ancient mattress
         and the whiskery hiss of the grumpy old steam pipes.
I’m going away, and I want to pack
         the slumpy old hug,
         the whiskery hiss,
         and the friendly old thumping of upstairs neighbors.
I’m going away, and I want to pack
         the slumpy old hug,
         the whiskery hiss,
         the friendly old thumping,
         and bumps I know in my warped old floor.
I’m going away, and I want to pack
         the slumpy old hug,
         the whiskery hiss,
         the friendly old thumping,
         the bumps I know
         and my own old dust-clumps I sweep from the corners.

I’m going away and I want to pack
         all the old things that will bring me back.