OLD AGE

I have not heard the thud
Of that stumble
When blood bursts
Through viscous ventricles
To extinguish hope;
Nor have I turned my head
To heed the crumble
Of teeth chopping
Through my flimsy plastic rope.

And there are years
And there are moments -
They waste themselves
Before we have a chance -
Then we stoop to neglect
So we can find excuses
To destroy time
Either with hubris
Or someone else's useless ambition.

Somewhere a piano plays
A pop frolic from my youth,
Or is it more like jazz,
Or an heroic hymn
For the bankrupt
And the merchants of the obtuse?

So I'll cry like Christ but without His reason
And chase my dreams again despite the season.
No one will know
And fewer will care or question:
Why?