Being Sick at the Age of Old

Things have changed so in the business  
of being sick, the days you dwindle  
in bed, deliria as frequent bedside guests.
 
Where is the glass beaker of orange juice,
warmed by the morning blinking through blinds  
made clattery when the fan looks your way?
 
And where is the glass straw, bent so  
you can sip while whimpering as you lie?
Why is the mercury no longer shaken down?
 
A moan, at least, is still a summon, moan,
and it insists itself through doors and walls,
A moan is a wound barked, audible  
 
the way the surface of the sea carries words  
farther than on land, moan, and they stumble  
over to your side, moan and be loved.