Being old can be an occupation.
Like docking a boat.
Coming to the pier with its cargo.
Drinking, smoking, indulgences
carried to the edge of a bluff.
Denying sleep to multiply
my days on earth.
Until coming to the time
when I’m docking that boat,
careful to avoid breaking the ropes,
destroying the pier
that’s my life,
being captain of the ship.
Bringing to a quiet close
the voyage.
A lingering walk about town,
dinner by the water,
a drink or two with companions,
and then the sleep of youth.
A quiet conversation with my heart,
that’s what I’ll do.
And maybe tomorrow will come again,
never sweeter, a whole new life.