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has there ever been a group of
nearly fifty year old men who
look forward to the decades ahead
rather than reminiscing about the lifetimes
lived? sitting at the local pub with the blokes
sharing the same war stories of shows seen,
trips taken, women known- sprinkling the
conversations with medical woes and the
deterioration of their bodies. slipped discs
and the inevitability of eveything slowly
getting worse before the final call. look at us
at eighty, if we are lucky, looking back at these
days as the ones when we were still spry
and alive, raising teenagers and playing in bands.
drinking on tuesday nights planing future trips
wondering if there will be enough time to be
better dads, husbands, sons, friends- men.
what do you want to do next? one of them asks
nursing a headache and a watered down whisky:
a gentle tropical breeze ambling through the street.
each quietly contemplates an answer, unsure
how to respond publicly. somewhere an obligatory
promise-made shifts in a pocket- waiting to be set free.