When He Is Older

They will say he isn’t much
anymore,
wonder if he was ever much
at all,
shuffling out
in corduroy slippers
to stink-eye the neighbors
and get the mail.

A roadside curio
on a high shelf,
gathering dust and pity,
wheezing and hacking himself
deeper
and further
into a world that
sucked out his youth
wrung out his blood
and picks its teeth
with his duty
and debt.

They’ll wonder what it is
he mutters under his breath
and he’ll wonder why
they can’t stop to listen.

They won’t understand
why he spits at their charity,
why he won’t be a jewel
they can paste
on their holy-rolly
crowns.

They won’t remember the brawn
that shaped steel,
that set cornerstones,
that fought every fool
and earned every dollar.

Not when the tide of strength
has gone out.

They won’t recall
how he picked up and carried
a family of six
through fire and flood
like they were
strapped to his back.

Not when the skin
hangs off the bones
like that ragged undershirt
limps down his frame.

His memory will deceive him,
setting fire to the dried up pasture
of his past.

His body will betray him,
slowly curling his shrinking spine
into a fist.

He will write venomous letters
to the city council
about the parking meters
but there’s no way in hell
he’s paying 44 cents
for a stamp.

He will be a threat
to children,
a cautionary tale
to adults,
unshaven and unkempt,
stockpiling jars of hardware
rusty tools
and broken appliances
in a dim garage
like ammunition
for a burned-out
Armageddon.

They’ll keep an eye on his porch,
waiting for the newspapers
to pile up
so they can call the cops
and be done with it.

But for now
he is happy to toss that ball
through a hoop,
chase lizards
through fallen leaves,
eat his dinner
in front of the TV
and call up his dad
every Sunday.

[a long-delayed response to Julie’s incredible When She Is Older - appreciatively, and with the hope that inspiration, in fact, is the sincerest form of flattery.]