Birthday Suit Poem by Max Stark

Old men wear clothes ill befitting their stature.
Threads loose, zippers down, cardigans stained,
they know not what they don.

Instead of chiefs and medicine men,
they are bag packers at the grocery store.
They watch TV at night till they go blind from seeing so little.

Instead of riding donkeys into the heart of the village,
crimson robes gathered over their shoulders,
ramrod straight and stately in their bearing,

they ride scooters and wheel chairs
and golf carts slouch shouldered
into the heart of the Mall of Darkness.


Old men, wake up!
Refuse not the late surprises that come to you.
Your years will form your conviction.

Stop and listen to the voice of knowing that has grown old
with you. Speak with consequence from the place in your chest that is okay with everything. Let the young know

that you can never get enough
of what you don't really want,
that the path ahead widens just when it narrows,

And that death is neither an alien nor the enemy, but rather
that extra special occasion that's worth dressing up for,
worth wearing your birthday suit.