How ancient you look, old man,
How like a living antique
You look today.
How much your money has held
Me in this living death
Waiting for yours.
When I come to see you, old man,
How the other folk celebrate
My compassion.
For seven years, I’ve graced your
Flaccid bag of bones
And smiled.
But today you’re looking so dead,
Old man, so dying
But so busy.
So tell me why your outline still
Declines to leave these
Sterilised halls?
Stug Jordan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/appointment/
