All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
W. Shakespeare
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
W. B. Yeats
I
The more untrammeled time I have to spend
The less there is to spend it on. My eyes
Grow weary reading. TV’s a barren
Waste. Sport no longer tickles, and sex drives
Down a dead-end street. Memories, those hot
Idylls past—they’re all pretty much forgot.
II
Six different meds float my life (one pill
Mitigates another’s dire effects). Stuff
I used to want now seems plain laughable—
Insipid toys, detritus, lint and scruff.
Morbid introspection lays bare my lot—
A mind and body crumbling into rot.
III
Attention fuels a smolder of despair—
The gyring world spiraling—the new-born
Beast devours Bethlehem. No forbearance
Can soothe its rage. No garlands to adorn
An Earth gone mad, where zealots’ parting shots
Yields Armageddon, ends their false gods’ plots.
(10/28/07)