Ninety-six looks forward to one hundred,
Intent on reaching that elusive goal.
Not that life's particularly pleasing;
Even so, the signal thought of squeezing
Time to fit an arbitrary whole
Yields a satisfaction to be savored.
So he lingers, withered, weak, and wheezing,
Imagining The Moment, from time severed,
X upon a sea that knows no shoal.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon