a poem which comes to this

sometimes I'll sit on the couch.

sometimes basketball is on television.

somewhere, somebody has fallen down the stairs.

somewhere, somebody washes the dishes.

somebody else lives in Paris.

someone shoots somebody sometime

before its broadcast hits the local news.

walking outside

I'm aware of what surrounds me

but not everything penetrates my senses.

exhaust fumes sicken me

but in moderation I enjoy its scent.

if pungency was reduced

the fumes would rival the scent

of lavender.

it rains a light, windless rain.

it's a warm rain and when it beads

on my face I wipe it away

with nothing more than my sleeves.

there are other goings on in the world

and most escape my attention.

It's not that I'm disinterested.

I'm too old to cultivate unresolved opinions.

I’m too old to outlive much of anything.

all the genuine blonde

bombshells of my youth are gone.