They have spent their content of simpering,
holding their lips this and that way,
winding the lines between their brows.
Old folks allow their bellies
to jiggle like slow tambourines.
The hollers rise up
and spill over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly,
slyly knowing the best and the worst of remembering.
Saliva glistens in the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble on brittle necks,
but their laps are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously forgive life
for happening to them.