I’m stunned by the mortality of men
I used to love. They ought to stay alive,
although I never thought I’d see again
the three no longer breathing of the five
significant to me as partners: first
and last and in between, companions of
my escapades, decisions with the worst
results, beloved enemies of love.

The streets are clogged with senior citizens.
A fleet of walkers brandish tennis balls.
Our medicine prolongs the lives of men
who used to die of age. Those nature calls
can win parole, and put the call on hold,
but I’ve lost three who weren’t all that old.