I’m Getting Used to Growing Old

I’m getting used to growing old,
the hardest art in the world—
knocking on doors for the last time,
endless separation.
The hours run and run and run . . .
I want to understand at the cost of losing faith.
I tried to tell you something, and I couldn’t.
The world tastes like an early morning cigarette:
death has sent me its loneliness first.
I envy those who don’t even know they’re growing old,
they’re so buried in their work.