Old Dogs


I sometimes
feel that if
I ever get off my ass
and accomplish anything
to whatever degree
the ringmaster
will stop the show
and point
an accusing finger
in my direction
to inform me
that I'm not
playing my part
in the cosmic circus
the only purpose
of which
is to amuse
the management
and to confuse
the lowly

I look
sadly about me
and see little action
to accompany complaint
everyone kicked back
in the cheap seats
shaking their heads
at the proceedings
and glaring at anyone
who raises a hand
to ask the


so when
the lights come up
for the evening show
I've decided to be
the good German
and lounge back
in the comfort of apathy
insert an opposable thumb
into the rectal orifice
and quietly observe
the disturbing display
in the center
of the ring

the vendor
selling warm beer
and stale pretzels
will provide me with
at least one activity
at which I can excel
without infringing upon
the delicate sensibilities
of the main characters
prime players
and prima donas
who possessively
the limelight

I know
that one day
an empty beer can
will interrupt
the performance
as it rattles
to the floor
of that hallowed stage

I will
bare my ass
to all those present
before leaving
on the journey
to whatever lays
outside this tent
of our paltry