snow clings to the mud
hugging my green Stratus
as oildrops leakdrip onto pavement.
the baby sways and bops
to his favourite melodies, amusing
those who have congregated
obligatorily for another rushed holiday.
mum’s feet roll stiffly under the weight
of years not shown in wrinkles.
she hides her age under blonde dye
and collagen creams, defying
white roots or telltale non-turgor
to dare mention more than 40
of her 65 years. except an acquired
gait betrays her secret, whispers
obscurely the pain of degeneration.
clips of conversation hint
at inner stagnation, cynicism
barely shades a bitter fear
of becoming Elderly. watching
her wince at random pains
brought on unexpectedly by mere
shifts on the faded orange couch
i regret my lack of pride-worthy
accomplishments, my abundance
of decisions disappointing to her.
i bury premature grief with carefully
constructed animosity, emotionally
charged imitations of indifference.

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