I try to imagine myself old. 80. 90.
I try to imagine myself softly daft, cloudy-eyed and prone to mistiness
when a New Order song comes on.
I try to imagine myself old. Who will visit me, this childless
old broad with blurred crinkly tattoos?
Duncan, probably, because I let him have Yoohoo with his pancakes
when he stayed over my house.
I try to imagine if he’ll dread these visits. Making small talk
while I stare at the wall, machines whirring and blinking behind me. His children
kicking, bored, at the rungs and legs of soulless institutional furniture.
I try to imagine myself old. Fearless. Working the polls in November.
People reverently whispering that I was born during the Nixon administration,
that I saw “Star Wars” the FIRST time around.
In something called a “movie theater.”
I try to imagine myself old, beloved, nonjudgmental, accepting, accepted.
Finally happy with this radically changed body, its limitations and shortcomings.
I know this much: I will not wear purple. I will not wear a red hat.