The Anger Of Old Men...

who am i then? is there nothing left? the splintered leg of the coffee table, the doorknob broken, the place on the edge of the yard where the dog likes to piss? do old men's bodies crumble into the shadows of all the things they've died for? how many plates filled? how many cups poured? how many fires tended against the night? how many hands held? how many dreams buried beneath the tree that stands? how many conversations with pictures on the walls? lonliness breathes, with a stink familiar... the tv drones like gnats flung against the bulb... the world's gone mad, and everything i thought i knew, is buried on the hill! even the name on my shirt has faded, coffee cups stacked in the sink. the hands fumbling with buttons, are both cold, and alone... and the body on the bed, is no body at all. the vine grown into the gutters, rain water falling on pavement cracked!