© Nolan Hatcher

Crumbly knobs

      Were greying at the temples,

A red-brick chateau

      Still awaiting them in the suburbs.

O what had they done

      With their allotted time?

What thick shake

      Had they accomplished

In all that time,

      In all that time?

The knobs

      Were now balding,

Their ties beginning

      To sag quite severely.

They looked

      At what neither had done.

Crumbly knobs

      Checked their hair roots

And ancestry

      In the family Bible,

Removing every other

      Moldy pressed flower.

Of course,

      They found what they sought,

But some peculiar

      Shaggy pages surprised them:

The secret of

      Dry ice and eternal life

Manifest

      In a chromed manifold.

Home, they thought,

      In a gush of pastel hearts reaching

            orgasm,

Home,  

      Of course!                                 

 RAUDELUNAS

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