When I am 93
I will live on the far shore of a lake
Miles and a day from the city.
You won’t feel the dry
Parchment skin of my hands
Or see the folded ruins of my face.
We’ll talk by phone
On signals bounced through space.
The old cords will waver and quaver
And my words will crackle with mirth
In a voice so used to weeping.
James Hazard
copyright 2009
Posted by james-hazard
at 11:12 AM PST
Updated: Wednesday, 21 January 2009 11:21 AM PST
