At least old and stupid has its own excuse!
Some things never change.
had been small - except we kids - and life
was knees and thighs and reaching up forever
holding on to Momma's hand. Still light
outside at bedtime summer evenings. Old
was something else - it meant they're going to die.
Nana and her ancient cat were old, and they grew cold
before I knew either of them very long. So I
didn't worry over Mom 'n' Dad
for they weren't old - just big - and that meant they
would always be there taking care of us;
their presence made us feel secure and loved.
We didn't worry over Gramma-Grampa
either - they were big, but they weren't old ...
except my Daddy's Mom who died when I
was six, despite she really wasn't all
that old. Eventually, Gramma-Grampa
did grow old and died, though not together.
Across the years we kids grew up - both Bob and I
and even baby sister - grew up, got big
and never did grow old; and even now,
although I recognize that I will die
SOMEday, it's so far off to count as damned
near never. Though I'm over sixty now,
I'm still not old, for I will never die.
afraid of death and can't admit you're dyin'?
You could at least accept you are not growing
any younger. It's time you quit your cryin'
embrace what you can't change. Fully knowing
the years are not moving backwards, you were whining
passing thirty, going fourty, making
fifty; ready or not approaching sixty,
calling "Olley olley oxen free!"
So celebrate, as I did when I didn't
want to take the crap I gave my brother
when he turned "old". I never wanted sixty,
never wanted old. No one buys
that 'wizened elder' trash - not here, not now.
Everything is zip time - go! go! go!
"Just step aside there, Pop, you're in the way."
destruct, my message done. I will live free
and independent, will not let my brain
decay, cells imploding, turning inward,
feeding self into oblivion until
I just fall off the earth, disappear in fog
attended to by specters in unfamiliar
places occupied by strangers I
have known for years and cannot recognize ...
I can't remember why I must pretend
it's really cool turning sixty. Is it
because in doing it, it's become faux chic?
The only kind of life support I want
to see is ice cold beer, hot coffee, ice
cream, pizza on my tongue, the music of
a poem, song, or symphony, the touch
of Annie's hand - that's life support enough
for me. If someone wants to stuff me full
of tubes and chemistry, I want you push
'em off and plant me on a Harley, point
me to the sunset, rev it up, and send
me off. I will not simply fade into
eternity, obscurity through toilets
in a nursing home. The mansion Jesus has
prepared now waits for my arrival free
of reticence and physical constraints.