Old Age

It comes not when it's wanted,
Because it's never wanted—
Who would choose hanging
Folds of skin, a face creased
With scores of age lines, feet
Speckled with spider veins, an
Aging heart that could yell
'Surprise!' at any time it chose?

An actress once said, 'Getting old
Is not for sissies' and she was right.
It takes guts to live with the gradual
Loosening of a once proud body,
And the slow softening of your brain.
There is no glory in getting old—you
Are just a survivor of life's myriad
Tricks and games, all its accidents,
Illnesses, petty defeats and failures.

And old age does not carry wisdom
With it as you might expect—there
Are many tart in youth who are bitter
In their slowing down decades, even
Hostile to the joys they might once
Have hoped to swim in, carefree…

So why must we get old? What use
Is it, other than nature making room
For other beings to replace us—still,
Why can't we live for centuries like
Old trees, or those big turtles found
On that island with the funny name?

Perhaps it's a way to teach us, to
Cure the young of their solipsism,
To shear them of the innate vanity
That comes of taut bodies and soft
Handsome faces—then to teach
Them the fears that come with
Aging: the vulnerability of unlived
Dreams, trashed hopes, and the
Persistent aches of lost loves…
Not to mention fear of falling!

So if you are a young reader
Of this old poet, you'll ask,
'What? Nothing comes good
Of a long life? No hope at all?'

Oh yes, something very good
Can come from a long decline,
At least for those who choose
To believe—anticipation!