I was twelve

and still living in the world
of church youth groups
and Christmas caroling
at the nursing home and wanting to bring
syrupy joy to the shut-ins,
and he was lost in his ninety years,
sitting like a living cadaver,
his breadstick legs crossed as if they were locked,
waiting exhaustedly for the days to finally
end.
His skull-like head was propped in his decaying hand
and he stared, stripped of caring,
indifferent to our childish do-gooderism.
He seemed to have outlived life itself and
had ended up on old people's death row,
cursed by living beyond the desire
or the ability of anyone at home
to help him to the bathroom.
I didn't see any of
that then.
All I saw was a sad, defeated, skeleton
and I knew that I
was damned well never going to be
him.
A lot of my opinions have changed since that night.
But not that one.