There is no such silence
As sad old-age
There are no forfeiting remedies.
The knee-jerk battles
Tremble through
Corridors, oak-aged aviaries.
Kicks and bangs on lino floors.
Spills and coos and
hand-me-downs.
Circled assemblies of
Mismatched friends –
Piano dusty now.
Frugal visits, vague hellos
Family room in minty green.
Broken nerves remain unsung –
Repeating tires the young, it
seems.
But when the laughs of escapades
Come sailing down the halls
It is the young who wait around
In sterile corridors.
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