I have five years, he said,

Not long after greeting us at the door.

He recites this as an axiom:

Sun shines, birds fly, the tiresome lot.

Strong hands, wiry legs, he flies from the chair.

This is not the face of death I dreamt

Written in a man's face and stoop.

I see him leading every procession of

Canes and walkers

Gathered for a meal.

Do you feel your needs fulfilled, we ask.

Though what we really mean is,

What do you even need?

I walk for my groceries, he said.

Sometimes I stop by the senior center

Not very often.

I don't think it's for me.

What about the rug, I ask.

He brushes over my fear of those tassels

Streaming across that hardwood floor,

Speaking of Tibetan mystics and patterns.

We interrupt:

What made you decide to come here?

I have five years, he repeated.

I have some sum of money

And I hope to die with

None left in the bank.