But Wait a Minute

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.

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