In time I’ll have to throttle up and go.
I’m just two steps too slow.
(My dancing days are gone, you know.)
I raise a fist but should be swinging two;
all of my neighbors do,
gray blurs between the green and blue.
Buried in gold the young betray the old;
the old embrace the mold,
seek solace in what we’ve been sold.
But I suspect the fold unfolds itself
to hide its green-blue wealth
in rotten fruit on a rotten shelf
where it persists, unseen, in perfect health.
— Jeremy Scott Olsen