At my age a man expects honors
and recognition.  Forget that!
The bland leavings of diminished demands--
contributions to the ambitions of others
are all that worldly matters, along with familial fondness
however distant, however adhering to someone
I no longer am, perhaps never was--
but what do I know about that?
So this is it--cope with the present
until the light goes out forever?
I end as functions, as scenery,
as someone whose desires do not matter,
whose accumulations are irrelevant?
A stick figure of silence, just another
vaguely startled red face and white beard
identical to every other old man
our individual faces lost?
Small warily searching eyes, no
smile?  Just one
of the floaters without position
in the world, whose children are far away
or don't exist, or never existed?
Old man fading into the darkness.

2011