Clubbing

Hey you, the young crowd, how much is
Clubbing with a woman growing old -
Before the dullness of a knife touches
Every portrait on her peeling wall;
Before she speaks to the moon quietly
As her sunset turns monotone;
Before snow comes, wrongly or rightly,
To claim what is no longer her own;
Before every key in every keyhole
Slowly turns to lock every door;
Before the dust on the worn-out sole
Turns into solid cement; before
The thoughts turn back and the dear old faces
All wane from being improperly kept
In storage, and times are mistaken for places,
And shots are called by someone inept;   
Before they begin the merry countdown
Of new years dressed in silver and black;
Before the discolored wedding gown
Finds its final rest on a rack;
Before it becomes unimportant somehow
That so many secrets can finally unfold...
Come club with her, the yet-young crowd.
Come club with a woman growing old.