You, the monster on the bus,
strike terror into hearts,
your trembling hands
counting out your pennies,
your skin draped loosely on your skeleton,
like a moldy cloth on a painting.

Your wisdom has since left you,
leaving a beast in its place,
lashed and chained
by routine,
scared of the screams of the city.

You grasp at the traces of your memories,
like a beggar to change.
Don't bother.
You'll only waste them
on liquor and smokes.

What did you do, beast
To deserve this,
this wild sentence,
to be trapped in a failing body,
inept in its age.

Time is a mugger on the street,
that spins you around,
and takes your youth at knifepoint,
while your knees knock,
and your head swims.