They have no dignitas, Bermuda shorts;
Work shirt and slacks, save on that rare occasion,
Become for him a uniform of sorts,
Though never of Catonian complexion.
Not being the kind to chorus ichabods,
Though tending from habit to older fashion,
And never much for newly minted gods,
He knows quite well that trumpeted revulsion
Is unbecoming, even in the old.
His age still very well remembers how, but
Does not worry too much for to uphold
Its own rewards so much as it fears what
Might go wrong if a friend bought that Mercedes.
He understands quite well, having once been
Young, what is the exhilarant joy of these,
But too much time on silver wheels wears thin,
And there is soup, and the half-tumbler of wine
To satisfy one’s evening happiness.
Eos is not for him. More in his line
Means in his age always to wish for less.
It is simpler that way, we will concede.
His genius does not care to ramify,
But rather prunes the tree that from a seed
It has maintained with care, and patiently.