Reversible Two-Way Door

The man you’re talking to being
Ripped about by a year of blows,
A year not to be repeated,

Regales you, and all you can think
Of is how dead he ought to be,
How every life’s late-stage sequence

Is largely ridiculous, being
A kind of rehearsal for those
Who can’t appreciate the ruse

Of practicing to be what you’ve become,
Which amounts to being done and gone.
Plunge back in tomorrow, plain dead you.

Tomorrow should be made aware of this,
That death arrives double, both hit and miss.