One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.
When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.
I never expected to stand in front of the window,
hands in the pockets of my cardigan,
muttering some fancy acronym for pain
in a specific part of my body,
and that getting older would be so mundane.
Yet, I have to survive this unseasonably cold June
and myself.
I can’t remember the last time I tasted marzipan,
or anything as sweet, for that matter.
Sugar has become one of those guilty pleasures
I can’t afford anymore. I envy the time I could eat
whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted,
and everything burned off without a trace in my waist.
I guess that’s age for you. But it’s not all bad.
There are things that only came with age, like the fact
that the all-consuming greed for new is finally gone.
I’ve learned patience and appreciation for the moment.
And back then, I would never have understood the words
of Professor Falconer. Now I know—I’m a single man too.
With my mouth open, I doze in a garden chair, trying to warm my bones
in the Sunday morning sun. Is this the first sign of ageing—the chilling
fact that I am freezing in August? I know that this is the north of Scotland,
but still. And with all due respect, I am only slowly approaching my fifties,
not my nineties. I am nothing like all the elderly folks passing by my place
on the way to the nearby church. To be honest, they somehow seem more
alive.
hidden pilcrow 