I Am Looking Forward To Growing Old
I am looking forward to growing old,
staying in bed when mornings are cold.
Trips to the ocean to breathe the fresh air,
with nary a thought of my thinning hair.
I will grow a white beard, perhaps get a pipe,
buy an Underhill and smoke while I type.
I’ll pen pages about far away lands
and the wisdom I gleaned as a young man.
I’ll write of places I saw and of people I met,
how I globetrotted without a regret.
I’ll type till I cramp and when I tire,
I’ll have some soup or a scotch by the fire.
I’ll be grateful that my eyes can still see
and I’ll revisit those volumes so precious to me.
Hemingway, crime novels, Poe, and the Bard,
afternoons of iced tea and books in the yard.
I’ll watch the blue salt water and white foam
kiss the rocks and sand like an old love poem.
I’ll witness sunsets of violet and red,
and diamond white stars above my head.
If my ears don’t fail and I can still hear,
I’ll cherish the sounds from both far and near,
like the honking geese among the white clouds
or the firehouse’s noon siren, brazenly loud.
My old records I’ll play for their crackles and pops,
I’ll pine for the rustle through leafy treetops.
Some June nights I will listen to baseball games,
during storms I’ll hear rain tap on the window panes.
If my heart can still love when I am old and gray,
I’ll remember those in my world every day:
The women I loved, the friends I hold dear,
the blood bonds I share, the ones I keep near.
If I’m lucky enough to be an old man,
I’ll watch and listen and love for as long as I can,
I’m fine with ageing, despite what I’m told,
I am looking forward to growing old.
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