My wife tells me, by way of encouragement,
Laura Obrien’s dad recently turned ninety-five
and he looks great. “That will be you,”
my wife confidently asserts. Good. If so
I’ll try to make the time meaningful between
now and then. I assure her I am not melancholy
about growing old, or elderly, as people of my
age are categorized.
I appreciate having lived into this late stage of life.
Thankful I am still in the game physically and mentally,
determined to continue to engage life fully.
I even write poetry as a challenge to the right
hemisphere of my brain. I’m considering
publishing a collection of my poems. My wife
knows little of poetry and its appeal, but is
supportive of my efforts.
I accept my time of life, am content, acknowledge
passage of time extracts its demands — a date certain
awaits, no waivers are being granted.
My wife asks if I’m going to compose a poem
capturing my thoughts and impressions of the
aging process? I tell her “No, Dylan Thomas has
already written such a poem, intense, captured
in six stanzas. There’s nothing more to say.”
She asks, “Who is Dylan Thomas?”
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An old poet's birthday.