White hair. A stoop. A stick.

I caught a glimpse of the future me.
White hair. A stoop. A stick.

I'm hoping I'll still have poems in my head
and not be feeble and sick
when I reach that stage.

And be with a woman less than half my age!

Yes, I'm hoping I'll still know affection
and how love feels.

And I'm counting on having the strength
to beat off all the young whippersnappers
who'll be snapping at my heels.


Acting Your Age?

Poem copyright Bernard Young 2011