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[Wilyem Clark]

That's you in the future, pal:
Little old gent in lime green shorts
Leaning slightly forward as he trots
From bench to Metrobus bay.
He's on some sort of meds and vocalizes
Private thoughts;
People avoid him, and why not?
There's nothing comely or cool about him.
A pack of cells in slow decline,
He sheds dead skin and shreds of vigor;
What crackerjack capital he once had
He spent in days but shyly remembered;
Now, warping like a wooden rail—
Worn out, splintering end to end—
With scads of time he cannot use,
He rides on home to his saggy bed,
Bland bowl of oats,
Incessant blather of TV,
Rhinoceros nails and drippy nose,
Man doomed to outlive Methuselah.