Short-Timer with the Shades Down

There’s always the anecdote
Some friend of yours likes to tell,
Or your parents like to tell,

About that one character
In the neighborhood or in
The family tree somewhere

Who was always complaining
About sickness and aging,
Always one foot in the grave,

And lived that way, complaining,
Decades at death’s open door.
Maybe civilization

Is that hypochondriac,
Complaining with the shades drawn,
Miserable, durable.