Elegy

along the street the outcast pauses

his earring makes him special

a useless worker of the disgraceful

he’s stood at the crossroads of  years

the traffic light contains three colors

but none give him permission to cross

I live OK and work at present

as word processor (from the root “cess”)

and in the process wander

or hold court with whacked youngsters

you just can’t get used to death

you drain your life toiling for some treasure

you’ll die like a darling you won’t protest

and out of decorum pretend to see the light

die just like the rest of us

and to your relatives’ delight

agonizing confess you know

where to find the gold