Quickly Aging Here

1 nothing to drink in the refrigerator but juice from the pickles come back long dead, or thin catsup. i feel i am old now, though surely i am young enough? i feel that i have had winters, too many heaped cold and dry as reptiles into my slack skin. i am not the kind to win and win. no i am not that kind, i can hear my wife yelling, “goddamnit, quit running over,” talking to the stove, yelling, “i mean it, just stop,” and i am old and 2 i wonder about everything: birds clamber south, your car kaputs in a blazing, dusty nowhere, things happen, and constantly you wish for your slight home, for your wife’s rusted voice slamming around the kitchen. so few of us wonder why we crowded, as strange, monstrous bodies, blindly into one another till the bed choked, and our range of impossible maneuvers was gone, but isn’t it because by dissolving like so much dust into the sheets we are crowding south, into the kitchen, into nowhere?