Accustomed
to the dynamics at the crest
of life's forward motion,
a biosphere surfer
almost carelessly taking for granted
this most privileged position,
I now find myself slightly off center,
bereaved of some health, some energy,
some common interest;

instead recognizing my peers
in the groups of slow motion senior citizens
cramming the supermarkets
on weekly 5% off days,
struggling and limping
between diary and bread,
swarming like cockroaches
in a low-income Texas apartment complex,
about to be exterminated
by popular indifference,
old age holding its own,
grumbling and cursing,
flocking the emergency rooms
like African elephants at a waterhole,
eagerly craving another year or two
of the common man's tolerance,
pointless and lustless,
stinking like corpses already,
in sweaty underwear

I bow to The Cosmos
and give it the finger,
chuckling