I Grow Old

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I Grow Old

To hell with wearing
my trousers

rolled. At this age,
my damn feet

are too far “down there”
to do much

grooming or good. And joints
that used to

work—forget-about-it.
I’d love

to swell a progress, or
two—still,

but what swells now
is definitely

no royal matter, I can
assure you

that. At least my head
still platters

a thought or so, sings
my restless

legs to sleep with dreams
where not much

aches, except the deep,
silent seas of

what I might yet presume
and dare.

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