On Being Mortal

Life sucks sometimes,
dreaming, planning your future,
but it doesn’t work.
It’s not so easy.

You can’t have your cake,
much less eat it.
There is always something in the way,
or someone.

Grand designs die with a whimper.
You do what you can
with what you were given –
not much.

My lottery tickets never win,
the numbers never come up.
I have to work for it all now,
but I’ve grown lazy.

I wish I’d laid a foundation,
shook the right hands,
greased the right palms,
slept with the right ... men.

That was a hurdle too high for me;
my switch-hitting is limited to baseball.
Maybe I’d be famous now,
in certain circles.

If I’d practised hard,
where would I be now?
It’s prostitution
to get what you want.

I played safe, conventional;
no chances, me – play by the rules.
Don’t hurt, don’t get hurt.
Someone always does.

They say you are as old as you feel,
but who are they?
Young or blessed with a silver spoon.
Where are they?

I have things to be thankful for,
I know, but the tunnel is getting blacker.
I’m starting over
with no light at the end.

Yet I don’t give up,
it’s all still to play for;
I won’t have time to enjoy the prize,
if I ever win.

Grease those flaccid palms,
buy the ticket,
sleep with ...
no, still not that.

I’m still playing safe,
playing the long game,
but how long is that?
Not long enough.