The Comrades by Paul Summers

every season brings change: more empty seats for overcoats
& greasy caps, to prop up sticks.
their collars grow more loose,
their feet rattle in pristine shoes.

the incredible shrinking men
meet sundays for dominoes:
their fingers grip the ebony,
like brambles on unkempt graves;
they eye the kitty like preying cats,

faces receding to sharpened bone,
the skin of one-time double-chins
hangs paper-thin in breathless flags
& when they laugh, their straining necks
like pelicans remembering storms.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Summers_(poet)