A Mess of Things

A young man goes around
in clothes too big for him.
An impediment he surmounts 
through fit and trim,

hip-hoping over obstacles, 
dosi-do-ing weaving  streets
fancy-strutting stately straights,
never lost, never falls.  

While his clothing, barely keeping pace,
weaving with a drunkard's grace,
caroming off walls, 
gets caught on things and falls.

	        * * * 
.
An old man in a darkened room,
weary from these struggles
hugs his bedding and snuggles,
and longs for sleep to come.

Strewn across the floor
the clothes too tired to dream,
all arms and legs like a crime scene,
sleep without wherefore.

Stark awake and lucid, 
unwinding his wanderings:
How could I have been so stupid,
and made such a mess of things?