be easy, the story books tell you.
the gold
watch, the big
chair in front of the tv,
a white plate
of hours on the wall,
all yours.
and yet,
i see the men,
bent
by smoke and drink,
work,
the women in knee high
stockings,
shuffling
down each aisle for
what they
already have, and then
what?
it feels grey and despondent
this destination.
there is no rainbow,
no golden
pot at the end of it all.
so spare me,
your best wishes, your
retirement party.
pop those balloons,
dispose of the cake.
leave me be
to my natural ways,
which is work,
until there is that day, when
i'll welcome
and embrace that open grave.
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