What It Comes down To

So it always comes down to this:

the brain's cells thinning,

connections unsnapping, separating,

past and present mixing,

and the morning sun wakes you

to a strange house, your own wife

looks down at you, but who is she?

The one you want to see is your long-

dead mother, and now your son stands

looking dapper, like your father once

did, but his wire-rimmed glasses

and his solemn stare make you

think of your great-granddad,

the one you never knew,

makes you finally have to ask

which of the three he is,

though what you really want to ask

is who you are, where you're headed,

what you're slipping into,

this thing it's finally come down to,

and now you can't return to where

you are, can't get the minutes

to march forward, fall in line,

and the day keeps sliding

out from under you,

until light dims and voices slur

to lullaby, bed floating downriver

toward the sudden gash

of white water, rapids, whirlpool,

of new depths to fathom,

to come down to.