when the tv is slow

We fear we are the hollow men
but can’t even raise the hard dick for that
not for us the rough life of the road, the seas
ours is the 9 to 5 of sinister existence
punching the time clock under the eyes of another half dead
grinding through the day waiting for our mistakes
to be proof that such continuance has value
making things with machines to make money
to waste on children who know we know nothing
or in cul de sac pursuits to simulate the living that we forget
our wives don’t wait for us no more they have their own dramas
and will fuck us only on nights when the tv is slow
or their thin pity gives it up in one last try for the team
for this we are expected to be grateful
and promise to not remember a time when we made love
not this faded stripe patch of garment called companion
until our worn down minds and frail bodies give to decay
this will prove the high point of dread subsistence
to be a fighting survivor of terminal disease
it is how we will be remembered if at all
rather than the young man priapic in eternal spring.

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