Disposed to loving comfort as we age,
we rush from work to kitchen, bed or bath,
as if a foot massage could manage rage,
as if a DVD could blanket wrath.
We snooze commute with earphones or we drive
with NPR – we flinch beneath the barbs
of day’s misfortunes – till it’s after 5
and we’re released, except for counting carbs.

Regard our parents, living still and dim,
and let us learn a different way to spend
our time, for time cannot be saved in spite
of advertising claims. A quicker him;
a softer her: let’s mean that for an end,
and maybe by finesse endure it right.