is written on “The Institute For Aging” bus, —

a parade of broken-down old people clinging to walkers

and wheelchairs emerge, scrabble across the sidewalk

to enter the Institute which is more like a mausoleum

with loveless mannequins who have already died

night after night, — lonely living corpses.

Volunteers lead a Cable-Car choral of Golden Oldies.

Men, and women clutching empty handbags

are encouraged to dance. One granite-faced man

eyeballs the cleavage of a lady with sagging breasts.

Coils in the brains of the dancers have forgotten

the difference between a Rumba and a Cha-Cha- Cha.


One old guy can’t take his rheumy eyes

off a young intern and keeps muttering,

“Not a man, not a man, not a man anymore.”

Another Gent with a W.C. Field’s red nose

can’t stop whining about how much he longs

to be back on his stool at the Pig And Whistle.

Excelsior, you old-timers!

Dance, dance while you can, dance, dance,

the tune is catching and will not stop,.

dance till the stars come down with the rafters,

dance, dance, dance till you drop.