When I Am... Poem by robert dickerson

When I am dotty, many decades hence,
listing, perhaps dribbling in my chair
bits of lint and stirrage in my hair
the picture of despised improvidence.
When long defunct, it's fabled forges cold.
the factory of poetry in my head
to mice and owls has fallen, though never sold
my name forgotten and my works unread
one bookshelf in this great metropolis
will yield some aching soul some line of mine
who'll, reading more and more, cry 'what is this?
this poet could have been a friend of mine'!
and bear them home, more given away than sold,
regretting he was young and I was old.