Shall I sing you the song of lost youth?
Woe is me, my shorts are all gone,
they’ve fallen to my knees in a hurried trip
to courduroy, silk. Worms spin my man garb now.
This body has to feed itself, how sad.
It has to feed others, and is inclined
to stay from the water’s edge, to remain
safely on the train platform.
It is an asset to the community,
a mobile, thinking, shitting vessel of commerce.
The eulogies are all on file, the family
pictures behind ultraviolet glass now,
adding another forty years to their life,
twelve more people will remember my name.
How curious, the ant hill will soon
be inhabited by sand fleas, who will feast
on the blood of the ankles of aliens.