Everything Becomes Very Strange

Everything, as we age, becomes strange.
Violent compression is our birthright.
Earthbound, our first clue is sudden
Restriction.  No room to turn or twirl,
You will feel confined, trapped in place.
The clock is already ticking--your mother's
Heartbeats are numbered--you'll learn
In time, at her parents' funerals, perhaps.
Necessity, the mother of invention, said
Good things come to those who wait,

But those who hesitate are lost in space. 
Even now you're wandering inside yourself
Checking all the walls for cracks, a way
Out, but all you see there are dark
Mirrors--reflections of your uncertainty.
Eisoptrophobia.  Now, there's a fine word.
Save it for later, or you'll ruin your appetite.

Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.  You chase the wind
East and west, north and south, creating new
Rituals of restriction.  The candle's flame flickers;
Your time is running out.  Hurry.  Hurry.  Hurry.

Something wicked this way comes, and you're all
Thumbs, fumbling, bumbling, down on your knees,
Rummaging through a pile of crap, searching for
A ball you remember you once dropped there.
Never mind.  Leave it then.  You don't need it.
Get up.  Go wash your face and hands.  You know
Everyone is waiting for you, and supper's getting cold.

Nearly Departed

You come to mind
while I sit on the toilet.
I can't help but wonder
what you think about the nature
of such awkward exposure.
Your energy collects itself
into a huge smile, and I imagine
you laugh reminding me: 
If you don't shit, you die.