Eighty-seven lives within his means,
Immensely happy with his lot in life.
Glad simply to be, he knows that soon
He'll finish his remaining macaroon,
The one left since he lost his rabid wife.
Yet time was far more troubling in his teens.
So he floats with pleasure through its seams,
Embracing reveries that timeless tune
Voices otherwise still locked in strife.
Each day is like the last, as nothing looms,
Not even death, through which the sunlight streams.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon