What does he do, when,
Mixed-up in sunset, he staggers
Out to where all of those who
Never admit fault end up bringing
Glasses of old excuses and new cognac to
Life-changing chapters from novels by
Henry James, or even Balzac
Where does he go, when,
Beset by age and loneliness, he
Realizes his best tricks don’t work anymore, and
Flashing the old smile only makes them
Run away faster than he’s seen his
Money go into holes and slots and
Anyplace else money might fit
He looks for his own reflection in
The sky, but all he sees is
Emptiness
I’m reading this in a break from looking through the FB history I downloaded before deleting my account.
This poem really hits the spot after a couple of old updates I might try to find a place for on the blog.
Facebook is like a wonderful family and friends photo album, except located in somebody’s campaign headquarters, and where people hand out tracts and sell you t-shirts with unfunny jokes on them.
But the photos are nice.
Wow, powerful words… I feel this deeply!