In with the old--
Hurtle now-vintage trains down dank dark tunnels
Remove their careful electronic maps,
Strip them of their automated voices.
When my bones are dark yellow and brittle
And my tendons poorly strung,
Muscles taken from toned tan thrones--
When my years number just forty--
Build my casket, lay me in it
And let dear Friend Sleep close my eyes.

I am tired.
I am an ancient shell with separating gears,
Unwinding slowly.
I trudge familiar paths like the train,
And those tracks never change--
My worn body, my bleak self,
We always end up where last we went
Though they have gutted our insides now,
To make them new.

Hush--
You know it's me.
I am like the supply staple of your grade-school years.
Maybe I'm the protractor on which you scratched your name.
The scarred ruler, numbers all faded into gritty, sparkly blue.
You put me away behind wood cabinet doors years ago,
Promising, childish lisp all a-quiver,
To one day use me again.

--I sleep.