Member Poem

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There will come a time when
the last wristwatch is left in a drawer,
when the last John Deere is sold,
the last factory has closed,
and the last PBR sign loses
its argon gas.
Then there will be no more men.
Bristles of hair in ears,
sacks of cheeks hanging past jaws,
tired eyes behind plastic-framed glasses,
fat arms in sleeveless shirts,
purpled fingernails,
big noses and paled-colored slacks,
Snap button shirts over low hanging bellies.
All gone with the last man that goes out to hunt grouse
never returns.

(previously published in Literary Mary)