The masses

The pendulum swings
Eternal
The sheep hang on
For dear life.

Age

I’m old, don’t start with me
Don’t talk of deadlines
Or complain about the occasional
Twitch of middle age

There are people I know,
Dearly beloved,
Who worry that death will take them
Before their great work is done

Others who panic
Thinking their great work,
Having taken place in irascible youth,
Will fade without recognition

Or that the world, God forbid,
And all its minions,
Might come to misconstrue
Their contribution, mistaking it for exuberance.

As for me, it could happen
That I’m done before I die,
Or otherwise

Timing, they say, is everything.

A rose, indeed,
By another name
May smell so sweet,
But would the Tree of Heaven,
Fondly known
In certain childhood quarters
As the Stink Tree?

My dear statistic,
I’m so glad we could meet
Like this.

What’s your cohort?
I’m Boomer myself
My demogaphic’s online,
If you’re interested.

Millennial? Too cool.
No Giorgio for you,
Or Abercrombie, then?
Red wine, not white.
Vegan I see.

Such a delightful
Subclade.

I’ve got your number.

The journey never really ends, does it?

– Mikeliti, where are you going?
– I don’t know.
– You don’t know?
– I never knew, did I? But off I went, all the same.