The Long Game

I play the long game,
Combinatorial eloquence.
If strangers on subways can ask where to go,
Then someone can ask . . .
But will I go?
The deejay's booth resembles a pulpit;
What is the import of his sermon?
No one dares look in my direction;
Medusa, your serpent-locks are showing.
Gymming it five to seven means nothing,
Being the fittest is no guarantee.
Meanwhile I wilt and rot in the sunshine;
Day-old loaves don't appeal to the customers.
Will I become one of those sad old men
Who sit over beers at the ends of bars?
I think I am almost there already.