it's good that old people get crotchety

It's good that they complain and snap and scold.
It's good they take all day to cross the street,
glaring, holding up their hands like traffic cops.

It's good that they confuse us with cousins we despised.
It's good they stink of mold and slops, and their mouths gape,
black-toothed and snoring, when they sleep.

It's lucky they fall out of bed and break their hips
at 2 A.M. and must be driven to Emergency
when we have the flu. It's fortunate they're shunted

house to house like heirloom trolls—relatvies vying
to create the most convincing reasons why
they can't take the oldster, although they'd love to.

It's good each morning we're afraid to find them
dead, and hope we do. It's good they bawl—
"I'm such a burden," "After all I've done for you,"

"Nobody wants me!"—and every word is true.
It's a godsend they answer the phone,
"take" messages they don't write down,

and yell, "They've chained me to the bed!"
It's fortunate that who they were sometimes floats
above their heads, then disappears,

and it's like watching Dad devolve into The Thing.
It's good even the "Home" we finally put them in
instead of buying a car that runs, fixing our roof

that leaks—the Home that will haul us to the Poor
House in a year—can't control their tantrums any more
than we can. So it's good they curse, and shriek

like birds, and won't stop fussing with their shit.
It's fortunate the jowly minister drops by,
spends a minute with his parishoner, and an hour

proselytizing us. It's good that, at the grocery store,
we lose our appetite, passing the Depends.
It's good we've cried so much, grief has become a bore.

It's good that every atom in those ancient bodies roars,
"I need," until we scream, "Oh God, just die!"
How else could we stand to let them go?

(charles harper webb)