poem

 Men in Shorts

I don't want to become

That old man in shorts

Pale legs like crustacean claws 

Black-dyed hair middle-parted

Combed back and blow dried

Bounding across the parking lot

With a self satisfied lope

That wilts the dandelions nearby 

You don't need to see my legs

When I’m old and senescent 

I'll be in pants, in comfortable shoes

Sitting over there on the bench

Crew cut gray, black glasses 

Pretending to read a book

About ecological catastrophes

Watching the the world go by

All the young men in suits

Strutting with leather attaches 

Whistling brash tunes

They’ll someday call Regret 

Whispering to myself

We’re all going to die

As a matter of fact

And I wasn’t that

Nor that 

Nor that

6/14/22