Here

In my seventh decade,
the ice caps melt so 
quickly that earth’s rotation
slows and to adjust we
add leap seconds into
the clock. In my seventh
decade, I pour the oil
of flowers and herbs 
down my back, because 
my skin dries out like the
ground remaindered after
we pump the water
table too low. Wild fires
scorch the west
and sex becomes virtual.
My cats watch birds
online that may not 
be alive anymore. They
may even be extinct. 
In my seventh decade, 
the doctor says,
Hope is the magic bullet.
Does this beg the question
of pattern. I worked 
for a long time in a 
world in which we 
followed seams around 
the body. Bias-cut was 
the term and everything 
flowed. In my seventh 
decade, a twenty-year old 
says, don’t worry, the water-
bears will inherit the
earth. If this is adaptive
behavior, I’m not here
for it.