Fading Away

The older generation is fading away.
I don’t like wearing black.
I don’t like baking casseroles.
I don’t like saying, “Goodbye.”

I don’t like wearing black.
Death knocks on mom’s door,
trying to sell his shoddy wares.
She pretends that she isn’t home.

Death knocks on mom’s door.
We can’t stem the tide of the inevitable.
Pills and prayers are insufficient weapons.
From outside, he watches us and howls.

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