Being Young and Getting Old

Every week I go to some store,
a different one, or the same one,
and buy something I may or may not need.
This improvidence outlasts my joy,
and while I watch my spendless spending
I see this invisible curtain
which separates your vision from mine.
Though I hand you a symbol, a token,
it is not recieved. It is not given.
It is not a piece of me nor is it a whole,
but something I found and remade, a puzzle.
It is easy to keep going,
to force oneself out
to ignore the necessity of sometimes
reliving a past like the widow's bleak memories.
Your childhood spills out over the sky,
the entire bottle emptied,
and you watch the hand that wipes up this mess,
confused and flushed with embarassment
you did not get that last sip.
In the company of the moon and stars,
you now sing our own lullabyes.
At noon you enjoy a deep sleep.