With Age

I know how ancient philosophers felt
When they eschewed sensuality
And took up bookworm bickering,
A pastime like knitting or baking bread
Designed to dampen stray skittering thoughts,
To keep eyes focused on ho-hum tasks.
They fostered a solid nothingness
That filled their yawning vacancies,
Sacs that the suckling lips of life--
Parched and forever demanding swill--
Drained long before the silent sleep.
The mind roils on and imagines things
That can't be crafted in the flesh;
The aging hull is rudderless:
The captain at the helm may shout,
But crewmen's ears are plugged with clay,
And apathy regulates their days.
Adrift, adrift . . . what else to do,
But peer at islands through a glass
And raise the flags that spell distress
And bob along on listless waves.