The years are numbered on the measurements
at your waist like a palm tree with rings
the tyres driving nowhere sane
but hugging you firmly round and round
sagging at the knees the weight
brings you down
to the next level up
as you puff your chest out
and suck your guts in
to no avail. The tyres collapse
when not properly inflated
and being unable to meet the racetrack
of a wife head-on.
The crisis looms when the vodka
slumbers you to sleep early- alone.
The deep snore is not a jet engine whirring
but a dream dissipating.
Come another ten moons and thick glasses
of fruit juice and health tonics
still keep the tunic tight
as we all battle a world without walking sticks
and false everything else.
The slide from here on
is slow and steady
to a quick finish
at the doctors clinic
and mounting medications.
Happens like this all the time.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
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Comments about this poem (Mid-Life by Marshall Gass )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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