I use to think that days melted
fast,
back in the time it took you to blink
forty years after the Beatles
Until
now, ever since I first dove
One hundred New Years,
Because at the end of most days,
I wonder if the tiger is still a tiger
Even if he is shot on vintage camera equipment
in that quaint and old-fashioned way
I feel more and more like something
preserved in the Smithsonian
Who
speaks only to passing security guards
In the rhythm of voice activated
silver bells and cockleshells
That somewhat approximates
my once, oh so irresistible communication
Just
a snake out of its skin in a vast desert
Where nobody but me goes anymore
About
to be outlawed as obsolete
By people I’ve never met before.
