The Old Geezer and the Bagboy
I am 88.
I need much equipment:
I need my walker
so I can shuffle about,
a lift chair to stuff me in the walker;
I need my greenish dentures,
my pastes to keep them in;
I need my useless hearing aids,
my trifocals, my magnifying glass,
my menstrual pads for the prostate problem,
unctions for various orifices,
soporifics, pills, syringes, salves.
But as you stuff my Plymouth’s trunk,
smart-ass bagboy,
smirk not,
for your needs are just as droll:
The cap worn backward
as the group denmands,
the Humpty Dumpty ego
swathed in zit cream,
the hundred dollar concert tickets
to hear three-chord dopers howl,
the thirty-dollar bowl cut,
the designer overalls,
the Lagerfeld cologne,
the mammoth tires
on that ugly pick-up truck,
all on eight-fifty an hour.
And last of all, creepo,
that ancient little latex donut
the one you drop out of your wallet
on purpose,
the French one
with the orange squiggles on the end,
your James Bond talisman,
now dried and cracked,
dusty with crumbs and . . .
as much a mysery to you
as which pill at three to me.
The cap worn backward
as the group demands,
The Humpty Dumpty ego
swathed in zit cream,
the hundred dollar concert tickets
to hear three-chord dopers howl,
the thirty dollar Mohawk,
the designer overalls,
the Lagerfeld cologne,
the mamoth tires
on that ugly pick-up —
all on eight-fifty an hour;
and last of all, creepo,
that ancient little latext donut,
the one hidden in your wallet months ago,
the French one
with the orange sqiggles on the end,
your James Bond talisman,
now dried and cracked,
dusty with crumbs, and
as much a mystery to you
as which pill at three to me
