We’re no longer afraid to be

taken for fools with smacking

kisses, silly requests, effusiveness

and big plopping tears. Even

derision makes us joyful with

burping birdlike chirps—we

granddames swapping baby

pictures like young men’s poker

cards, slapping them on the table,

trumping on a soft cherub face,

a cute cleft rear. Too bad the

young and the restless who plug

their noses and can’t luxuriate in

sweet infantile poop offerings,

squandering of grim time, coy

unbuttoning and shedding of

clothing in the corridors as we

wheel away, little girls again

lifting up our skirts to the air,

our swan white hair molting,

our heads lolling off our thin

necks, the drool glistening down

our ivory chins. We tear out

the roots of care, rake at our skin

borders, the flooding river held

just within its porous flesh banks.