(It is said that a man's life is measured in sevens).
It doesn't matter what I think
or how I choose to make my representations,
nobody notices that my clothes Ill-fit,
that my shoes are fastened with Velcro
and a few grey whiskers
stubbornly bristle on my throat.
I can stare at young pretty girls
without the fear of scowling reprisals
and face down youths
hell bent on mayhem,
the winces from my worn out limbs
go unnoticed and become tenable.
I have become a listener, not a debater
the slightest change In temperature or mood
draws me tortoise-like inside
this cringing geriatric carapace,
thus soon, I will be invisible
the insignificance my swan song.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2015
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