When we see old actors play roles past their prime,
why do we not swell with the sunrise of pity?
Perhaps we pick out terrible infants hidden
beneath their vivid fitted suits. Time’s gracious wooden stakes
could straighten them, like tomato branches
stretching for the sun. Or think of Monet, his
late-life flowers. Fingering our own crow’s feet,
it’s assumed we meet them halfway, add import
to dry and score-bright words. We might even think
of our own lives — their obvious, profiled arcs.