Shambling On

I wish I had the fortitude & Will to dress in a clean shirt, tie, neatly pressed slacks and suitable jacket like an English gentleman, but…. one day I appear in a 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 rumpled shambling center of that patched-up heart of aging, where night hangs on the backs of chairs, and rumpled mornings enter the evening ever unwilling to change.