I understand that most, who look at me,
Will say that I am old; a geezer who
Is “heading towards the light” who safely can
Be disregarded, placed upon a shelf
Or relegated to an attic space
Among important, half-forgotten, dreams
Of happy times and memories of youth.
And yes, it seems that every other day
Another picture of a member of
My class is captioned, “Rest in Peace.” And yes,
I know of people waiting for the end
Who’s lives are over, zombies, walking dead;
Who act like, tell themselves that they are old.
And I remember thinking I’d be old,
Mature, at thirty-five. Why I could be
The President when I was thirty-five.
And now when I hear people saying how
At forty-seven life has passed them by
And nothing else remains except the end,
I think, but wait a minute, you’re a kid.
So use your sleeve to wipe your snotty nose
And think about the future not the past.
So live like Ruth who lives a pirate’s life
at forty-seven years. Or better yet,
Ulysses, taking on the world again
A generation after he is old, supposedly,
And finished as a man who fights with gods.