Final Exam

You will not see me in sunlight, your office,
The theater, or the park.
My grey hair and my blue eyes

        that float

In the wrinkled tide pools of my aging flesh
Will be invisible there
Where I am not a part.

You will not hear me in the dark in your private
Dining, living, bed or recreation rooms.
I will have no voice at your table

        and my words


Will not echo in your business halls
Where I have no part.

You will not feel the stiffness of my bones or know the acid
Taste of my well used flesh

        smoked in experience


The lingering aroma of twice-dead skin.
You will not feel my heart.

I look at your struggle with my words
And know the words are part of a ritual you do not understand
Grey things to be handled with the gloves
Of short-term memory

        used and cast

In to the slag heap of irrelevant experience
Where I do seem to play a part.

I watch you and I hope
That the words fester long enough to fly
In to the orbic flexing of your old age
And escape from your brain

        to crawl

          on your soul.


Stephen Morse 1993