Growing Old
My best friend and I,
Contemplate getting old.
Thinking of how our lives will play out.
Then our future became clear:
We will be ninety.
In a house with seventy cats.
With iron lungs by our sides.
She will turn to me.
My best friend of seventy eight years,
Will turn to me and say,
“I hope the cats eat you first.”
Copyright © Danielle Stoops | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment