AT SEVENTY-TWO

At 72, it takes two tries
to get each foot into my jeans.
I wobble and catch myself
against the closet shelf.
 
At 72, I nap each day
enjoy my dreams 
scary or complex, puzzles
to ponder in waking hours.
 
At 72, it seems absurd
that I remember a child’s
great great grandmother. 
I'm a walking history text.
 
At 72, my 87-year-old friend
says I am young. I should
not fret but get to work.
I have another 20 years.
 
At 72, I think of poems 
unwritten, songs unsung
and return to my desk.
The day is young.

3 thoughts on “AT SEVENTY-TWO

  1. This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing. When I was 48, I mentioned to my 84 year old drum teacher that I was old. He told me that I was just a kid. At 65, I understand.

    Liked by 1 person

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