I will never grow old

An old boy on his bench
waits to be replaced by a plaque,

crocheting his thumbs, hands in lap.
His democratic lust for guava-shaped mums

and working girls who work
in shops, not brothels.

Leaves clot in psoriatic patches,
skitting at the bare ankles

of women wearing pedal pushers
in summer's memoriam.

For now, the ancients brave the park
but soon, overnight, when the ice appears

(puddles tightly capped
by vindictive out-of-work glaziers)

the park will be deserted except for me:
I am young with these lungs

and I hope you remember the war
or something. They say this winter

will be the worst for forty years;
how thoughtful to die from the common cold.

It is autumn, by the way,
and I have no respect for old people.