Shambling On
One day I appear in the supermarket
in sweatpants and T.
Stained nocturnal, I drive to a fast-food restaurant
then sleep in that T, eat breakfast in that T,
wear that T all day,
then slapdash my way into the night.
I have entered the shambling center
that is the patched-up heart of aging,
where night hangs on the backs of chairs,
and rumpled mornings enter the evening
ever willing to un-change.
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