Why Do You Look So Old
Why do you look so old? The child asks me.
Not my favorite child, and he is losing ground rapidly.
Why do you think? I reply. “I am old.”
How old are you?
I am a hundred and twelve.
That quiets the whippersnapper for a few seconds.
He is whining now, disbelieving me, calling me names.
The youth of today are not like us.
I want to scream “I am twelve inside, no older than nine some days.”
But my polka dotted hands and my wrinkling bulldog neck says more.
Not to mention the arthritis in both ankles which slow me down.
“Why are you so impertinent and fresh?” I want to say to the child.
But these words are well beyond his scope.
We have dumbed down society until I do not think
We can dumb it down any more,
So I hobble away, cherishing my superiority.
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