To
contemplate sixty is somewhat sad.
Gray
jowls loom, flesh cascading down sad cheeks,
Forehead
floating like a fat balloon, mad
Vessel
for a mad man's airy thoughts. Weeks
Might
pass, then months, then years, the rest a blur,
The
promised ease a rush to easeful death.
Sixty
becomes seventy becomes… "Sir,
Can
I help you? Sir, can you catch your
breath?
Are
you all right? Would you like to sit
down?"
Lord
Tennyson once wrote an old man's rhymes:
A
man who would not yield, who would not drown,
But sailed
to find the undiscovered climes.
"'Tis
not too late to seek a newer world,"
Said
old Ulysses. You? Your flags are furled.
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