A friend flared up when called old.

Truculently insisted he felt young.

But more was to come.

One day his younger brother echoed

the epithet.

Umbilical cord was slashed; birth bond sundered.

And shared blood discarded like dried-up refill of a ball-point pen.

‘Billions of cells in the body are dying out daily,’ I tried explaining.

A dour face ... an upset gaze walked away emotional miles.

Three winters slid by.

I saw him limping on a stick.

Creases on the forehead wept their silent history.

Tangled crow’s feet had no privacy option;

ballooned bags sunk the eyes.

“My hip bone is replaced,” he said.

A minor blip, you know. 

Matter of days.

Will soon regain speed sans the stick.”

Intransigent positivity?

Or

Romantic self-delusion?