Time marks your visit and
each year you come.

I examine your breasts that
sag with age.
I palpate your abdomen
stretched by children now grown
and gone away from home.
I probe inside to ensure
no mass will claim your life.

You notice my grey.
I notice yours.

There’s talk of Jimmy, the fella
who keeps you company but
does not hear anymore what you say.
And Lucy, the cat, who is fed well because
she’s the only pet.

Will I call you when the reports are in?
No, a letter will come
and you’ll call me
if a month goes by with no word.

Perhaps next year we’ll both
dye our grey.