Feeling It

“I am feeling it.” He said. He meant his age, and as I watched I saw a vision of him… Ribs broke away from the cuttlefish bone of his breast opening outward in a rueful grin. I saw his heart stuttering over a word. I watched his lungs tussling with a bladder of vapor. I saw a horseman on a creaking steed raise its hoary head and point an ancient ladle at a long-winded windmill. “Stir my belly lad,” it said. “spoon out my sump, dole globs of lymph from here to there. My oil is vapid, my hip-bones hang like tree tusks over a wilting groin. Each ear is a pot for mulch and millipedes”. The specter fades. He smiles, rubs his thin hair. “I also see it sometimes’” he says, “this liver-spotted ghost that chains me to you.”