Lament

A day or two ago I tried to quote
Camus on modern man: He defecates
and reads the Sunday papers I first wrote -
but what it should have been was "fornicates",
and "Sunday" was my fantasy. So this
is what it all comes down to - thoughts of shits
and weekends with the Times invade a kiss-
kiss-fuck-fuck-bang-bang mind as age submits
his calling card, engraved, upon a bone-
white plate: a view ahead of weekly crossword
strugglings, and bits and scenes from well known
films, and scraps of other voices, overheard
as life retold: He grows old. I grow old,
and treasure all these things, and fear the cold.

(the "next" paddle will take you to another poem by this author)