The old man groans as he gets up, Rising from the chair is a job. He notices now he is getting older His head is developing a bob. Not quite Katharine Hepburn, Not a nod as much as a bounce. It’s not a palsy, more of a tic. It’s not really that pronounced.
And stairs seem to be an enemy They don’t match the cadence. Between the risers and his feet There just too much distance. Or other times, they are too short And rise up as an ugly surprise Not coinciding with what he sees With his own aging naked eyes.
The man complains about TV How they are mumbling too much. They seem to be whispering Or using foreign words and such. And when he turns the sound up The action scenes hurt his ears. A ***** trick to play on people Who are a bit advanced in years.
The old man gets disgruntled When people outside make noise Like they are some kind of teenagers; But they’re adults, not girls and boys. Here it is ten o’clock at night When decent people are asleep. What kind of schedule is this For decent people to have to keep?
What is he to make of the music These young people like to play? It has to be some kind of abuse To use a guitar in that way. In his day there was melody And words you could understand. The noise they make is like a collision Between a dump truck and a sedan.
The old man grumbles in frustration That things have not stayed the same. He would write a letter to the President If he could figure out who to blame. But one thing sure, he always insists, It didn’t use to be this way before. Now a kind of anarchy seems to exist.