When You Are Old

by Mark Brazaitis

If the songs we knew should live as long as you live,
and in your late hours, you hear them
bellowing from a tienda or on a bus, blaring,
you’ll think of the boys who danced them with you first.
The places we’ve been you’ve been before
and you’ll go again, with other men,
each visit erasing a little more of me
until I am less than a palimpsest.
Even the kisses we shared will be eclipsed
by fierier lips.
How will you remember me
when you are old and gray and tired?
Will I be forced to pull my head from the stars
and humble poetry by banging on your door?

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