He remembers 78s,
Hell, he remembers when 78s were only pressed on one side.
Now, being 78 himself, he makes his annual inventory.
Nothing to report.

If he had more time, he might carve a commemorative stele.
Not of granite or marble (way too hard)
But something softer (soapstone, tufa, chalk even).
Durability is over-rated.

Instead he writes this poem.
Did I say “commemorative”?
Commemorative of what?
Well, nothing really.

[Note: Strike “commemorative”.]”
Forget memory.
Forget forgetting.
Longevity is just another kind of greed.

Rising from his seat in the Poets’ Corner at 4116,
[Sign: “Poets’ Corner. Keep Out.”
Don’t they mean “Others Keep Out”? No.]
He notices tea has spilled into his lap.

Now the folks on the bus
Will think he’s pissed himself.
Maybe he should pee just a little;
He’d hate for them to be wrong.