Less

 

LESS

In less than a year I'll be 50 —

That means absolutely nothing

To somebody else, but it does to me:

I'll be obsolete soon,

A burden that I can't carry,

An ugliness that can bear no fruit.

In less than a year the ground on which I walk

Will feel different and laughter will fill the air with

A joke that no one gets but me,

Silly me who hates that victim card,

But what do you do when time is running out

And no one will remember you but you—

Until you don't?

* * *