Growing Old

Saturday, Sunday, Saturday again;
now Monday as well...

A quiet, colourless dusk.
Trees gone to darkness.

We're penniless.
At supper: plates, glasses,
a half-empty pitcher,
pitiful hands of the abandoned...

A spoon is lifted;
it goes to the wrong mouth.
Someone is eating: who?
Someone is silent: who?

At the open window
a small forgotten moon gags on its own spit.