The chair retreats back into itself,
Shrinks stupidly, blindly
As you try to gain purchase on it.
Screw it, lie down.
You didn’t realize old age
Didn’t really mean wisdom as much as
Nausea and trouble wiping yourself.
Your kids are calling again
But you’re far away now, in bed.
You wipe the sweat from your forehead
Onto your palms, then the pillow.
Someone is inside your dream
Crushing you into something tiny.
What are they saying? Tell them
To shut up. Silence them
With the crushing weight of years.
Don’t they remember anything?
Won’t they let up?
Don’t they remember
This Bensonhurst dusk
In the sandlots and
The cars honking, the stars
Prssing down to watch
Like an audience of gods?