The Duc de LaRochefoucauld said:
You cannot stare straight
into the face of the sun, or death.
When old folks retire,
the last thing they want to think about 
is how near the end may be.
Teetering at the edge of non-existence—
leaves falling 
and when they come down
they will be far below the ground.
Avoiding monotony—minds become a circus 
of new scrabble words—they dance crossword puzzles  
through a long night sky in a space where stars
used to light the dark—trade stock options 24/7 
to make one last big kill—practice new swings 
for the golf course, longing to be a winner at last—
or become mindless observers of spectator sports,
an antidote to the fatal ennui of Sunday afternoons.
Awaiting annihilation, the elderly still emit heat
and find comfort in the energy of yoni and lingam.
Old men with shriveled apparatus cling to a fantasy 
portrait of Liszt made of nubile young ladies.
Artists, writers, and musicians scramble 
toward the finish line with one final work of art—
a legacy that will endure long after 
they begin the inescapable journey.