Slips like a minnow
through the stream of cars,
pulls a wheelie, slews
across the traffic flow
and flashes a finger, then
up on the pavement,
missing the old bird in a grubby duffel
by the thickness of a ciggy skin
he’s off again up the road
to a fanfare of car horns.
And I’m wondering if
or just envious.
An old man to his cock
That branch now droops, which once stood straight and true.
The summer plums which hung upon the bough
are shrunk and shrivelled in the orchard now.
For I am old and, sadly, so are you.
Now irrigation is your only function,
the time to broadcast seed is long gone by.
We must accept the truth without compunction-
You can’t stand up, however hard we try.