AUTUMN COLLECTION Poem by Piotr Sommer

And later nothing is the same
unless it's in a moment of inattention or
forgetfulness, because sometimes memory lives
its own life, and life its own.
The body is weak, under attack and
in the end gives in despite the effort
not to give in. It does, and later
nothing is the same.
The old person
is happy to have so few wrinkles,
to have a straight back and exercise
every morning and go on walks.
But the body is weak, and when it gives in
nothing will be what it was. Now to walk
across the room, slippers shuffling.
And another time
to visit a a different city
and not get the fork clean, drop the jar
of honey. To go out in the rain and right away
the overcoat gets soaked through,
the herringbone one, with the fur collar.
And later
to return, to spend the night, and in the morning
say with a delicate voice, "Get up, you asked me
to wake you at ten."