Of course retirement's a prize, The wreath at the end of the race, A box filled with Time, all sizes-- Days of unhurried pace. Your less-firm face...is expressive; Each grin encompasses a grimace. Castrophes fade to comeuppance. Checkers is better than chess. The primrose promise of a rainbow Feels suspect, a joke out of Duchamp; However blurred the fiddler's bow, More sit than stomp. Age's bitterest despairs Lie whittled to grey shavings; Our afternoons to quiet raving Contract in isolate air. We know the hourglass' quicksand brocade Will catch us in its wrinkles; That we will not be saved From the sinkhole. Life seems, not sears-- We have veered wearily to where At a voyeur's balustrade we stare And leak no tears. Aggravated vanities are all that's left Of what had swelled. Reality wriggles, unbereft, --Will not be quelled.