The Art of Growing Old
Living in the Land of Over the Hill
It’s a hard climb to up, up and over the hill of old
Daydreams of running away,
Galway, hidden on the Irish coast,
cold rain, wood fires, old books.
Fantasies of a mansion on Cape Cod,
overlooking the cold Atlantic, watching
storms dance on endless water. Maybe
the streets of London, me searching
for Shakespeare in dark pubs, sipping
a pint of Harps, the bar older than my
country… but I never imagined I would
find myself living in the land called
up, up and over the hill.
You need a passport to get in,
issued the day you turn sixty,
then the shoving begins,
younger ones pushing hard
from behind, steadily moving
you up the slippery road, chanting
move old man, get out of our way,
up you go, up and over the peak…
where there is now nowhere to go
but down. The young wear masks,
terrified of catching a terminal case
of saggy butt disease, screaming
getting old will never find me.
