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Cells
Somewhere I read that all the body’s cells
rejuvenate with new ones so that
when their time is up they slough off,
replacements slipping into their vacated slots,
the kidney slot, the wrinkle slot, that bald patch,
a scar slot when I slashed my arm
climbing a fence to pick some purloined fruit
Backup cell forces, all new soldiers, yet somehow
despite their micro-biologic youth
exactly as I was before, down to my
last arthritic creak yet presuming to be fresh;
cloned cell armies rushing reinforcements to the front
to wage the same old battles
fall victims to the same chinks in my armor
Except that in this book or article I read
explaining how this replenishment
process happens, it said quite clearly
that in the case of brain cells there’s a problem;
refurbishment does not occur, grey matter cells
once withered, drop off forever, leaving
my poor mind in gradual deterioration
until winter’s senility solidifies like spreading ice
And then I thought of Picasso and Arthur Rubinstein
and through my bifocals watched their wrinkled fingers
playing cube and Emperor, all youth and flex
exuberant as new, following perhaps some wonderful
instructions of a cell general or commander
That himself had long since bit the dust
© Johnmichael Simon
2009
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