old

I see the old guys at the race track, they are bent, carry
canes, their hands tremble, I ride up the escalators with
them.
we don’t speak.
I am older than most of them but I think,
who are these old fucks?  the lights are out for them.
do they expect to win the Pulitzer Prize or to cup the
breasts of young maidens in their
hands?
why don’t they just finish off and die?
I’m ready to go any damned time, I’ll even take them
with me, 2 or 3 of them, or a half dozen, a dozen:
their wrinkled white skins and their ill-fitting
dentures,
let them stiffen up and clear the space for clean
fresh lightning!
what good to linger?
for the bed pan last chapter?
for the nurse with the television mind, half the weight
of her body in the flanks and buttocks?

why honor the old?
it’s just the stubbornness of the genes, a trick to keep
a void existing as a nauseous perpetuity.
almost all have lived lives of obedience and
cowardliness.
why not honor the young?
their lives are just beginning to rot.
why honor anybody?
but, please, not the old, not those that I have
observed.

in the next war the old should fight the old
while the young drink and dream and
laugh.

these old fucks
betting two dollars to show
at the racetrack.

it’s like being dead and rolling over
in the grave for a more
comfortable
position.