The old man’s dragging through his final days,
Past ninety now and failing many ways,
Congested heart and kidneys in decline.
In bed or easy chair, he sleeps supine
Or shuffles to the kitchen to be fed,
Announcing to his wife, “Still here, not dead.”
“O, my,” he says, “O my,” head in his hands,
As if fixated by the falling sands
Within some spectral hour glass he sees,
That only when they’re gone will give him peace.
With nothing more to do that brings him joy,
Not music, jokes or food, his hours cloy,
And like old soldiers who just fade away,
This ancient mariner can’t seize the day.