The doomed young envy the old, the doomed old the dead young
John Berryman “Dream Song 190”
The wind, is moaning like John Berryman on a bad day,
and my sunglasses have sneaked away somewhere.
There’s no sun to block, but they would be handy
to hide my eyes at the Piggly Wiggly where I’m headed.
“Blind men and [racial epithet plurals] are the only ones
who wear dark glasses indoors,” a stranger once said
to hatless redheaded me inside a mall where I be sporting Ray Bans.
I’ve upscaled in my prosperous baldheaded old age to Costas,
but the stranger should have added “mourners,”
or better yet, minded his own fucking business that day.