Poem

Lamentations of the Old Radical

The radical old man lets himself go
when he knows there is nothing left
to be done with the world.

His revolutionary clothes become a
little tattered; his teeth, if he has
them, glow an awful yellow; his pot

belly grows harder than love as his
liver begins to tighten up and fail.
Sometimes the old radical will grow

his hair out long to concoct the look;
the pluck to signal he no longer cares
what common folks prefer to believe.

The radical old man laments his limp
penis, for it was such a tool years ago!
He laments cities where the houses are

huddled together like recluses, the
homes drawing people into themselves.
No doubt the radical old man dreams

of radical women and families. He could
write a mind-blowing poem--but for the
old man his lamentations prevail. To sit

in front of  technology and force a yell?
Yearning is neither something natural,
nor something he does willingly or well.

TS