Ode to an Armchair

Aging armchair, my home,
I wait here every day,
a trusted timeworn tome,
its pages on display,
may rest on propped up knees
whose steward's ancient too,
indifferent, if you please,
that others boil a brew
protesting, "eyes too weak",
or his "chosen lifestyle".
An introverted freak,
whose wisdom they'd defile
presuming what is best
for their enduring sire,
he would not one, to guest
his funerary pyre.

"Home is where the heart is"
one inane bard posits;
forefront his horse, that cart is,
the old remand to closets,
too frail to run or play
fearful of moving fast,
mere shadows on display,
soiled wretches with a past!
How dare they live o'er long,
four score and ten, all wrong?
You'd think they'd hear the gong
peal its strident swan-song!
Earth to earth, dust to dust,
a time to do one's thing,
as iron wills lust to rust,
death is stalking Spring.

This horse in its last days
a meadow eats away,
independence displays,
preparing piper's pay.
Yet, donning the disguise
of "watching out for them",
the offspring, worldly wise,
inconveniences hem.
This armchair, I choose home
to while away what time
remains an ancient gnome,
no length arraigned a crime!
Despite a frail abode,
the mind recounts its lark,
assured that faith will code
with hope encroaching dark!

--Fr Veni di Morte



copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved