Once there was a man who reached
the ripe old age of fifty
on October 31st, the day the dead walk out.
“Oh oh oh!” he moaned.
“You don’t know what it’s like
to be this old!
The aches and pains, the slowing down
and worst of all the chronic loss of joy!
I remember bursting with it bursting with
testosterone bursting with a wildness
bursting with wasabi joy
smashing icons every week
and falling into romance
with every second breath.
I never missed a beat.
Now I feel a mildness
invading me like mould.
I am clean I am collared I am meek
I am kale I am smooth and I am old
And you don’t understand.
I have to suffer all alone!
You don’t know what it’s like
to stare deep into the abyss.
I’m just a lump of rotting meat
with nothing left ahead
but misery monotony and death.
You’re young, you just don’t get it
but mark my words, you will find out one day.”
“Thanks for your advice,” his wife replied.
“I’m glad you told me this.
Otherwise, how would I know?
For after all, I’m only forty-nine.”
Drawing, poem and exclamation marks CC BY 2.0 Rachel McAlpine.