Goodnight, Breadcrumbs

Ear handles tugging back the flesh bag of my tired face,
A big old hand holding it all in place from behind,
And not having the words for exactly this headache. 
But a hand doesn’t have words for much, now does it?
It was only ten years ago that I had a great haircut
And none of the cats were dying yet, and ten years,
Or two years, from now, every cat I know
Will be dead.