The Lonely Years

You must resist crumpling
Under the weight
Of the Lonely Years,
Those limited infinities of time
When no one person occupies your thoughts.
Business steamrolls on,
Enveloping you in a mist of postponement,
An indefinite future of
Wait, I'll get to it,
First things first, in due time,
And similar catchphrase rot.
Social niceties rank much lower
Than pragmatic headwords:
Income, status, prestige,
Honing skills, reading proposals,
Writing dissertations,
Keeping up and lying down, exhausted--
All the haul and flux of living,
The burden of the immediate,
The allure of the eventual,
Which may never come.
We prostrate ourselves
Upon the sacrificial stone
Of perceived immortality,
Then act surprised
When the clockwork universe--
Well aware of itself, if not of you--
Strikes its gong tragically,
Tolls the hour of your end,
Demanding that you discard
Your hand of hoarded hope,
A clutch of aces and diamonds,
For now the game is over.