TEEDJUS

      He lies in his recliner through the day
      in his plaid boxer shorts and white t-shirt.
      From a pump for oxygen not far away,
      the tube beneath his nose gives him a spurt.

      His left hand’s on the handle of his cane
      he’ll need occasionally while going to pee,
      once he uncocks his chair and starts the strain
      of rising from his dull recumbency.

      “O, my!” he moans while struggling to his feet,
      and “Life gets teedjus, don’t it?” he exclaims
      while shuffling down the hallway looking beat,
      beyond all hope of serving higher aims.

           These are the dregs of life; the wine is drunk,
           and all that’s left is this declining funk.

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