Sixty Eight You Are Kidding

Sixty-eight! What the heck. I look in the mirror and see another me. I am twelve inside. Can’t anyone else see? My sense of humor is hilarious just like it always was. I am young at heart; I still run from the fuzz. I am a giant cuddly peace-loving hippie, who did not make it to Woodstock. I would have but my parents would not allow it; which I think was a crock. I was in high school then. I should have gone to Berkley. But I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, so stayed home. Was still perky. I want to tiptoe through the tulips, catch a ride with a communal VW van. Painted with yellow happy faces, bubbly daisies and a peace-sign hand. I will play a ukulele and sing folk songs louder and happier than Mama Cass. Look at my face, my friend. Sixty-eight. Come on! I am a 17-year-old lass! I see my eyes are fading. Arthritis makes me limp a bit when I walk. But inside I am 19, a real beauty, with a heart that doesn’t squawk. Sixty-eight. You’re kidding! At the most I am twenty-two or twenty-five. I lived through assassinations, bombings, Viet Nam. It’s amazing I’m alive!