Things to Come?
Shall I be damned to television land
in my dark evenings?
Will I be condemned to dance
the channel to channel limbo,
where the bar
is lowered nightly?
Must I be tortured with tartan rugs
and Vick's Vapour Rubs,
of potato and meat?
(Mince for a treat).
Will I grow thin
with parchment skin and purple spots?
Will neighbours nose-slit curtains twitch
and whisper, ‘Shame.’
as I shuffle past with my walking-frame.
‘He used to run like the wind,’ they’ll say
‘but now the old dog’s had his day!’
Shall I bury my bones in old folk’s homes,
told what to do and where to sit,
(should my lamp be dark or lit?)
washed, fed and put to bed before my chapter’s even read?
Looking lonelier (with a hint of ammonia),
I’ll smile emptily at visitors.