The Next to Go

A poem by Garnet

A cane of ebony topped with gold,
A fine tradition to uphold;
From age to age it’s handed down
To the Oldest Citizen in the town.

This fine cane got its start, you see
The first decade of the last century.
In an idea the Boston Post conceived
Four hundred thirty-one northern towns received
The canes, that with their compliments
Were bestowed on the towns’ oldest residents
And then, with death they passed it on
To the oldest surviving, like a baton.

I saw when I looked in the paper today
The holder of the cane had passed away.
There was pictured the new owner holding it
Next to a bio that reads like an obit.
An honor, perhaps, a morbid one, though,
‘Cause when you hold the cane
You’ll be the next to go.