How Does One Survive Oneself

How does one survive oneself
When all oneself is doing
Is being done to survive,
In one sense or another,
By pulse or by grandoffspring?
(I'll leave aside for one day
Cultural commentary.)

Funny of us to worship
Ancestors when ancestors
Got us into this business.
(Sorry, scratch the reference
To our ancestor worship.
I said no culture today.)
Here, in the sun, with a beer

And a belly full of bull,
I can spot that paunchy man
Over there with his bald stare
Into mostly fallen leaves,
Surplus, over-billed, nonplussed,
Running empty, gut to bust.
He's a strategy. He thrives.

He's alone on a park bench.
Pity would bypass the view
Of canyons, cliffs, and foliage,
The blue sky, sunshine, and beer
That made him turn aside here,
Made him need to be quiet,
Contented if it kills him.