Memento Mori at Seventy-Eight So clearly head of table is The loudly tick-tocking wall-clock At shoulder-height above it that No one else thinks of sitting there, Afraid of what it represents, As on and on, insatiably, It chomps away at life, its food, A noisily ill-mannered guest We don’t recall inviting, but Who can’t be easily ignored, A bully-boy who dominates With monologues on death and won’t Allow me any peace at meals, Staring rudely until I hear “Begone, you’ve not much left of me In which to write a timeless poem!” Saint Teresa…
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