I set my reading glasses

down on the end table

and I feel tired.

I hope the creaking I hear

is from the recliner

and not my back.


But I’m not really 

all that worried about age.


I get old.
I’m getting old.

Maybe I am old.


It doesn’t strike fear in my heart.

I’m gonna be

a great cantankerous old man.

Can’t you just see it:

I’ll be poking young whippersnappers

with my cane.

“Yeah, kiddo, I was going 

to Disco Biscuit concerts before you were born.”


“I was going to Phish shows

before your parents were born.”


I’ll be miserable

and cranky, irritable

and no doubt,

funny as all Hell.


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