Memento Mori at Seventy-Eight   So clearly head of table is The loudly tick-tocking wall-clock At shoulder-height above it that No one else thinks of sitting there,   Afraid of what it represents, As on and on, insatiably, It chomps away at life, its food, A noisily ill-mannered guest   We don’t recall inviting, but Who can’t be easily ignored, A bully-boy who dominates With monologues on death and won’t   Allow me any peace at meals, Staring rudely until I hear “Begone, you’ve not much left of me In which to write a timeless poem!”     Saint Teresa…