Too old to weep upon the painted road,
Your limbs, a sagging fighter, on the ropes;
Barely escorted in your small abode
And crumbled down: your pain and heart elope.
The sun was hot and verdant be the grass;
Trickling the leaves, by old man whistling wind.
Then siren-like, a far off cry doth pass,
The sound from you: your blood from stout to thin.
It seemed so long you checked the frothy cake;
You left him safe within the gated fence;
Vanilla poured out perfect from the bake,
But got he out and strolled away from whence.
And all the while you claim the fault not yours,
And all the while put him second to chores.