For Some

A ball scrubber

polishing boredom pristinely,

followed by a languid silent journey home

astride shiny new Tesla,

‘cause you can,

is a peek at Nirvana…

(which most don’t understand, but repeat at cocktail parties)

To what aim

goes this idle focus,

this compass stuck on south,

wearing a carefree Trump-patented tan

covering webbed veins of translucent aging arrival.

Up the driveway,

mail's monthly 4th Wednesday.

Oh, such a glorious day,

government postage smudged slightly,

trip to the bank,

flirt time.

Sweet smiles at counter

reserved for arthritic hands,

while young nubile fingers

count this month's Social Security allowance

into curious hands.

Off to his ancient favorite club medic,

musty oak-paneled history,

holding court atop stool

of slippery Naugahyde,

incontinence's best friend.

Sexagenarian bartender stands aside,

patiently waiting for this afternoon’s “Reality Show” to end

before asking “What’ll you have, buddy?”

Time glances up at the mirrored audience of one of past years.

The roar of silence.

Retirement bliss for some.

“Double Chivas, clean… the 25-yr. stuff.”