Life in the 70s

In my teens, I was fat, but fit;
into sports, band, and girls.

Ah! We were immortal then!
Until that night--guys skinny dipping in the lake,
a carload of girls gawking, screaming;
one of us failed to re-surface.

Now, in my 70's,
I’m still fat, not as fit;
watch sports and girls, listen to music,
Not immortal, aware of time tiptoeing by.

In my twenties, sport was girls and sex,
with gallons of beer and wine;
friends, and possible friends, sent off to war.
Fate kept me home where sport and fun
ran day into night; ‘til school ended, work begun.

Now, at 70 something,
Watch sports, listen to cronies lament;
fun is checkers with the old fart across the hall.
Bedtime’s at ten.

Thirties was my nesting time,
hard at work forging my career
hard at play forging my family.
Sixteen year old babysitter
hard at work tenting my jeans;
wife laughing a warning.

Now at 70 plus,
working at staying alive.
Wife is gone;
the only babysitters, my aides.

In my forties, I headed my own division
hirelings hanging on my every word
interns ready to shed, waiting my bidding;
Empty nest at home,
kids off to school, wife off to life on her own.

At 70, instead of a division, I am a remainder.
The only interns wear white coats and
stethoscopes.

In my fifties, I was a grump, and a gramp.
Set aside at work,
my advice asked-given -often ignored.
My kids didn’t know me, were seldom seen,
The grandkids thought
I was their own tree to climb.

Now, in my 70's
the nurses flirt with my grandsons,
shaking their asses
like snow globes they resemble.
No longer my grandsons’ tree,
at Xmas, I’m a decoration.

In my sixties, I was told it was time to go.
My new boss, younger than my youngest,
shook my hand and said,
“Thank you for your many years of service.
Somebody! get me a drink!”

So, here I am,70 something, barely fit.
My diet, largely pills.
The blue ones no longer work,
not even to jerk.
That’s okay, wife’s gone, kids busy living.
I flirt with biddies down the hall;
the nurses think we’re cute.
If they only knew what we were up to.

Still, each day, I can hear, sort of,
birdsongs, see the sun go down
then come up again,
clouds sculpting, against the blue.
The guy in the mirror each morning, still me.
And now and then, in tortured, cliched verse,
I get to proclaim
Aging is hell,
but the alternative, it ain’t looking so bad.
Not attractive,
but it’s seemed worse.