I overheard an old man
sitting down to pee
like a woman,
and i recognized
a second pair of pants,
white plaid on olive pajamas;
his were not unlike mine.
Mine, olive plaid on off white.

And my eyes turned green
for his loafers,
darker and snugger than mine;
they yearned for a searcher,
often deserted in corners
for days at a time.

And I turned on my heel,
but I did not consider it then
that that very old man
would never now start up
and dance without music
as I just had,
would never attempt such maneuvers,
would never pass urine or manure
without making fists of his hands.

I turned, and I walked
a little too much like a man.
For men are not far from old men,
and young men get older and older;
whether they still choose to stand
during nature's demands
will depend on how the sand
falls and lands through the anus of glass
that wrenches from world to the next
with onerous, lumbering breath.

03/19/2008

Author's Note: very spontaneous, recollection of a stored memory from recent history. the old man is real, no more than a leg and a foot, but a testimony to the apathy of time.

Posted on 03/19/2008
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