With dulled senses
he stumbles
'cross small divides,
ne'er seizing the day,
ne'er reaching for stars.

He cannot adjust
his lifelong habits
to forestall disaster.
The assailant can surely
snatch away all.

His attitude stinks.
His muscles are atrophied.
His mind is anemic.
He is unable and unwilling
to embrace neighbors.

He is an automaton
who spins out his days
in grief,
in despair,
incommunicado.

He is an easy mark,
a sitting duck,
to be bagged and diced,
skewered and fried,
consumed and regurgitated.