we become who we are,
we will be old enough
that we might
be no one—or worse
and more
accurately: nothing
much to anyone.
There may finally be
questions we are
old enough to answer,
but the young
will not yet know enough
to ask them, or care.
There'll be proverbs
we've finally had time
enough to memorize,
or antics we'll dispense
like ladle-fulls of vinegar
from the trusty but
shriveled-up cask
of experience,
but the days will pass
in silence, uninspired by
our crimes. Yes,
the very day we realize
we have brought
about life's goal,
if we are lucky
enough to be recognized
at all,
it'll be by the puzzling-
yet-illustrative way
in which we've managed
to ignore the admonitions
of a lifetime
for something which
looks, from a distance,
like a lifetime.
