I see him in the shop windows as I pass:
A jolly sort, round tummy; hair, what’s left,
cropped short, and mainly grey
beard almost half white.
He could play, has played, Santa,

He moves a little slow and his hand shakes
a tiny bit. His sea grey eyes, still sea bright
need help --- just a little – to see.
His face is tanned, and lightly weathered..
Sometimes he looks like my father
And sometimes he looks like me.

But he is not me, not really me,
Oh, I am grey, and shaky and fat, old
But not where it counts. Where it counts
I hunger to learn, to live to love. I am alive
More so than ever, alive to dreams a young
Man wouldn’t dare. Am I old?

I think not!!!

=====================================
my manifesto, my line in the sand