The man that I was ran five times a week,
weighed three stone less, memorised his poems,
never woke hungover before work,

dug for hours amidst the city’s fumes
and never lost his breath—I look ahead
at time’s narrowing tunnel and assume

that translucent skinned figure, bent and sad,
is probably the man that I’ll become,
singing Nirvana songs to bored grandkids,

on a rare visit to the nursing home
to hear my dodgy takes on history,
though none of them really wanted to come

’cause I spit when I talk and stink of wee.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Feb 01, 2012 @ 00:10:20

    A down beat day?


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