Shooting Stars
For Seaworthy's Tapette Noir

I try to not notice these days
that you sleep more
and have stopped leaping
on the bed with legs stiff against a sinking quilt.

Mornings are later now
with our modest walk around the block.
You remember when I hurried you along and brought
you home so I could run ten miles before work.

It takes seven to ten seconds more for you to reach my feet
when I call your name, especially when
several walls stand between us.

I slather creams on my face.
They have names like Erase
and Disappear.

My knees bend so my arms can reach you
but it is the coming back up
they complain about.
Thirteen years in a tendon's life leaves them
wavy like a flag on a windless day.

Then you were owned by three people.
Each of us got five pounds.
One of your owners is dead;
the other lost his property rights.
Now it is just you and me
watching the white hairs
explode against your ebony hair
like bullets
straight to the heart.