The Old Man I bounce off the walls Like an occasional plastic flame. Ankles appear wallowing in cloudy mists; about me, roary fingers alight twisting, turning rushing, swirling with all their frantic might. I see the mirror of myself ahead, that separates the cheery from the calling, it does not shatter, should it matter? I reach for that cigarette and light. A ghost of someone I once met, a shadow that floats outside my mind, a knocking, gasping, aging face it tumbles and falls, bubbles fly upside down, rounding time after time after time it hits the pane again and again thud...bang...thud He doesn't even know. It is him, the Old Man I thought he was gone, but he still comes, he is a contortionist drowning in his own life, spume straddles his greying lips. Delirious with the years he repeats his words But does not know nor care about the living young. Me. ©1998 Sally