ballad of a dying clock

you wake up one sunday morning
only to realize
that you have grown old without warning,
and that age is not part of thee equation...

and not only does your heart run
like your dead grandfather's
sputtering plymouth once did,
but emotionally it moves to the rhythm
of a dying clock...

and you realize then,
that the shelves you have built upon
your plum brown bedroom walls,
the dog that sleeps at your feet as you type,
and the plants who slumber in the sun
atop your bookcase
mean more than yesterday...

and only then do you realize,
that death--in all of her terrific glory--
feels more like a long lost friend
than anything else...