Hard of Hearing

A birthday poem for Sam.

what? we ask each other these days, and frequently,

requiring we move closer, enunciate.

we don’t mind.

when once we could hear babies stir from distant rooms, teenagers tipsy-toe upstairs,

now, i sleep on my good ear so i can’t hear us snore.   

i believe over time sensory acuity    

gives way to the gestalt;

all that sharp,

softening to a steadier sea.

lucky us! we can still summon joy, quick as a snake-strike;

the what? once edged with impatience,

rests easy here. always certain,

we have made our way to careful.