When I get even older will I
Play cards in the room beside
The library in the Memorial building,
Near the large-print novels that
My eyes are too weak to read?
I'll sit at a deal table muttering
About my poor draw in life, my cards all
Knaves and too soon now aces and eights.
Maybe I'll try a smouldering glance
From behind bottle-bottom glasses
At the one opposite, her once
Come hither look turned rheumy.
Will she even see me? Maybe she'll think
I'm a television show. I'll duck on
Aching joints under the table, push up
Her dress like pushing away the years.
Remove my dentures, close my eyes
And think of my salad days. Would like
To do something more but she ought
To be grateful for what she's getting.
She's going to gasp and shudder
And launch the table across the room,
Waking up the dozers and scattering
Tracts about the End being near. While
She's wondering what exactly
Happened to her and wondering how
To tune in that channel again, I'll
Vanish via the back door before
The Elder Police arrive.
Now forever banned from golden age opportunities,
Exiled to Marmora's few streets, the shadow
I cast on no-nonsense limestone walls, as
Crooked as my past and bent like
The knobbly cane vanity left at home.
I'll be pointed at from pickup trucks
And Bruce's barbershop:
A legend at last.
performed at PurdyFest #6