I keep telling myself
70 is the new 50,
Then cringe when
I look in the mirror
And realize it’s not,
All those wrinkles
I didn’t have
When 50 was
Really 50,
Or even when I
Was really 60.
I’m not worried
Too much about dying,
Though I have
The Woody Allen
Philosophy regarding
Death: “I don’t mind
Dying, I just don’t want
To be there
When it happens,”
I do mind shriveling up,
I’d rather be a plum
Than a prune
Though I know
The second is inevitable
Short of getting hit
By Mack truck
When crossing a street,
So when she talks about
Being Middle Aged,
I look back at her in envy,
Wishing I was back there,
Instead of where I am,
Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
Telling me who is fairer
After all,
It’s her,
Not me,
Morality stinks.
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