Frank Robinson: What we're left with

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Note from Robert Whitcomb:

Every year at this time, a longtime friend of mine, Frank Robinson, an art historian, poet and essayist who used to run the art museums at the Rhode Island School of Design and Cornell University, sends a poem from his home in Ithaca, N.Y. Here’s this year’s:

Senior Moments, 111

(written from a senior community)

A notice in our auditorium:

“Dear Alzheimer’s Patients:

Please don’t talk during the concert.

It disturbs the other guests.’’

xxx

Of course we love our children —

without them,

we wouldn’t have our grandchildren.

xxx

The challenge here:

You’re nobody now,

but you can’t forget

you were somebody once.

xxx

        Just in Case

Of course, I’ll go first,

but just in case,

please write a note

to your successor

(not replacement, no, never!)

a brief note explaining me.

xxx

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MOURNERS FOR HIRE –

YOU DIE, WE CRY

a public service for every occasion,

every gender, every religion,

loud or soft,

and all you can eat at the wake.

xxx

       Waiting for My Knee Replacement

A few helpful comments:

“It’s very painful – worse than a hip.”

“It’s a big deal.’’

“You’re walking so much better now,

you really don’t need an operation.’’

And then someone stole my walker –

or rather, walked away with it.

Even my cane clicks

every time I take a step.

Thank God

they operate tomorrow.

xxx

       The Day After

People are so nice to me,

I must be very sick. 

 

xxx

Here,

you’re out of step

If you’re perfectly healthy.

xxx

Each of us is known for our illness,

and each day,

we’re either better or worse or the same.

xxx

We grow smaller year by year.

They say it’s age,

But maybe, too,

it’s the way that time

keeps lopping off

our jobs, our homes, our friends.

We’re left with who we are,

nothing more, but nothing less.

xxx

We have so little time left,

we have  all the time in the world.

xxx

My wish for everyone here –

a healthy life, an easy death,

and a lot of money left over.

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Chris Powell: The question for the day after Christmas