Stooped and old and shuffling man,
With two brothers gone before you,
Taking their violence to the earth,
Leaving you, proud and stubborn
Void of philosophies and metaphysics,
Consumed and consuming
Little things,
Digesting just the headlines
Scraping only the surfaces
As it has always been;
Your bruised face, a black potato,
Seeming to be waiting
For each uneventful day to pass.
I glimpse your shadow
Trailing down the long green corridor
Sick and vomiting;
The footprints of your slippers
In what you had for lunch.