Another building,
another foyer,
another elevator
another street,
another sun,
another parade of cars
another parade of days
all different,
all the same
until you hear your old friend
cant swallow bread any more
his throat seized with tumour
the crab nipping hard
til his doctors fashion a
new throat from his stomach
then the whisper in your ear
next time, next time
and the days are shorter
and out of breath
and you laugh at the title
you gave this scribble
middle-age:
thats come
and gone
