Old Suburban Man

I have not fought, I have not died.
My fists are unscarred, and none
Have moved my throne before the tide,
Or seen my wings strive for the sun.
Now, the temples are gone gray
And you and I need hardly speak
To know what we have left to say.
The long muscles ruled, but now are weak.
The ticking creaks, and even down is hard.
The place is ordered, but does not often speak;
Little of the world exceeds the bed and yard.
And on reflection, there is too much left to give.
But I have not fought, or died, and only may have lived.