so i found it. your letter.
read it. understood you better.
how aging was like a fetter
shackling your feet--
each day a mundane repeat
of the day before,
and living becomes a chore
you don't want to do anymore.

and you know it would be lying
to repress your hope of dying
while watching the birds flying south
from the northwest
because every winter
they know it's best
to flock with the rest.

and even you see the need
to leave your nest
and join the rest of your friends
who seem now to be going
as if knowing
that they've stayed for too long
and are no longer strong.

and perhaps it is wrong to stay
when you pay for help everyday
to cook, bathe, read and write--
when getting dressed takes
all of your might,
and your body fights
through its malnourishment
of vodka and smokes
along with the emphasima
they've provoked
for the last five years.
so you drink a few more beers
and shed a few more tears
because nobody understands
what getting old demands--

it's more than clumsy hands,
a bald head,
and ears making their way deaf.
it's feeling gone
before you have left.