I Wish I Was 27 Instead Of 67 Poem by aMan Bloom

I wish I was 27 instead of 67.
Oh, sure, you say, who wouldn’t?
Wait, I say, I wouldn’t want to lose what I know, so
I’d want to take everything but my age and its fate with me.
That makes sense, you would agree… But wait,
I say, I am sitting in a café talking to myself!
Talking nonsense, too; nonsense that, according to you, makes sense!
But you know what it is I tell.

And anyway, who am I to want a second life, well,
Not a second life exactly, but an extension of this one,
And an extenuating extension at that, like wanting the stars,
And who am I to deserve such a gift, as if I have been
Such a stellar contributor to the health of the planet
Or credible champion in the fields of wisdom or art,
No declared guru, or purely auto-didactic mechanic fixing cars
(though once rebuilt my elder Volvo’s picky transmission):
Not even on an evolving mission; no goal or particular desire…
I just, hmmm, I just like it here and don’t must needs expire.



For proof, he (meaning me) , the feral older faux poet
Jumps and turns in the air in a spiral!
(JUMPS AND TURNS IN THE AIR)
If in my literally-exuberant form,
Unlike fellows and bedfellows, going, or gone,
My youthful attire mostly remains intact,
Perhaps only in desire if not plainly in fact…

“Egotistical heap of hubris, ” you brutally ululate.

“Yet, how may I become the me most fine
If denied the task’s sufficient time?
Such act by humans are hardly ever done
Name the few that do on the fingers of one
hand.” But, may I not want, too?

Perhaps another sip of brew…
(TAKES A SIP OF COFFEE)
Oh, that was forty-fiving…
So, on the fingers of the other hand, verifying,
Figure today might be grand for dying…
(ROLLS POEM INTO A BALL AND JUGGLES WITH TWO OTHERS)
But a better one for multiplying.