aging.

we have been racing to grow old.

i wake every morning to crackling shoulders,

knees, hips that scream down the stairs.

you will be old before me; i will push your wheel chair.

promise.

until i have one, too. Then we will tie ours together

and our hips won't scream down the stairs because

we will race our bigwheels down them,

maybe tumble trying to stay young.

I will go blind first, but

you will grow deaf before me. will

not have to listen to our noisy joints.

 will not hear the neighbors knock through the floor:

your drums are still too loud.