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Poem

Living the dream, in your teens, not hardly.
If you forever found yourself back in time
but with memories of all that is lost, and
find you cannot even locate your Valentine,
even with your good looks, shipshape body,
your countenance would become crestfallen.

Missing the moments, did you live them at all.
You’d recall son and daughter, grands and all.
Would life still be grand when the moon falls?

The sun rose on the shoulders of her or him.
You’d talk for hours about this and that on whim.
It is the life lived and the hope of heaven to claim.

So even when your loved one dies, they exist.
But, if you find time has reversed, while you rehearse
your memories, with tears no one cares about,
‘sissy girl or sissy boy,’ because those teens
can’t relate to your old soul in a unwrinkled body,
because gram and gramps are just old.

Suddenly, your back, excited at your limp,
bags under the eyes, and the grands
run into your arms, or grab the VR, who cares -
your back…your back..oh your back…

Still you do the heavy lifting of the rich at heart,
heartily, tearfully (why are you crying, kid asks),

Living your dream at sixty-something, remembering
everything…well, not everything, but you smile
because you're golden, and what matters is life’s kiss.

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