Thin grey strands drift upward;
heat reminds me of the cigarette,
held, forgotten.
And then,
I look for my lost reading glasses,
inert, on my nose.
That I listened,
to a young man playing softly, on his piano
is no excuse; I criticize my forgetfulness,
why does it trouble me?
Strands of my hair fall,
one by one, at the stroke of a brush;
I set a half-veil over my eyes
not wishing to acknowledge them.
Watching them float away, silent as time.