My old skin is thin; I am always cold!
Time was when I was, younger, even bold.
Not very, I suppose, the footsteps, faint,
Some distance behind me, a distant saint,
Perhaps, to beg a small gift for his cause;
Nothing in the dim sound to make me pause.
Nothing in the echoes to make me think
I might be standing, alone, on the brink
Of a farther shore without boat or need
To huddle by their fire, recite their creed.
I can no longer kneel, or sit in pew;
Most of my functions have disappeared; You,
Lord, know my physical disabilities,
Like a cupboard of useless utilities:
Frayed extension cords without current reach,
Old broken coffee pots with empty breach.
Start with the wounded, wrapped, infected feet,
Hands like claws, deaf ear, eyes that cannot meet
Those fierce eyes that look down my self to greet—
While I remain fixed firmly in my seat.
The Ninth Circle
When all human warmth has gone,
what’s left is heart of ice;
Dante’s final circle of Hell
is where we pay that icy price!
No cold comfort in that deep sink,
Just human treachery’s evil stink!
