In His Old Age
Seventy, I’m up at eight, bathe
and trifle about until lunch. After,
I have a cup of champagne –
it makes my mind race – I’m seeking
help. Do I get breathless
when I take exercise? I wouldn’t know.
I procrastinate by answering
letters. My neighbors judge me now
entirely on the cut of my coat;
but we’re all equally poor here, so the verdict
is softly given. Beside my bed
the radio plays; I read Bleak
House. My favorite room is the kitchen,
though I’ve given up on eating –
I’ve gotten to an age when I don’t like
to have food in my mouth and heaven
is the moment after constipation. You’ll be
happy to know, even now
my sex life could still fill more than
one wet holiday weekend. Still,
passive as a toilet, I want my God back.