bus 79

I think I get more patient as I age.
I’ve gained perspective through the mounting years.
But sometimes I’m consumed with inner rage
at visible unfitness in my peers.
I see the signs of metabolic waste,
ungainly fat that pools and interferes
with bending, standing, walking. They’ve defaced
their thinning futures, grinding bones like gears.

They’re in my way! They’re slowing down the bus.
They’re clogging passages with movement tools.
I’m terrible; I shouldn’t make a fuss,
but count me lucky I’m not like these fools.
As far as I can tell they chose their lot.
(I’m mostly kind, except sometimes I’m not.)

This entry was posted in Aging, Misanthropy, Poetry, Transit and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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