I caught them watching me, saying I’m slipping
away, just like Aunt Brenda did, 50 years
ago. Sick. I’ll dig in the trash, grab scraps, torn
paper that Mommy threw away. I dig past bones
and grease and clutter of things left behind, to save
what everyone sees as junk. It’s precious.
Should be left untouched. I know they wonder
of what will become of me when I’m old, but
I have it under control. Things are okay. Not
normal but still okay. Healthy. But we’ll watch
the clock hands tick and tick and tick away.