I'm sixty.
Facetious fools say that's nothing
if one's young at heart,
or, absurdly: Sixty's the new forty.
Toeing them in the rump would give me a kick -
only, a forty-year-old injury's
come back to haunt the knee.
I'll just take things easy,
let eyes wander where they will,
forget to zip up after a pee,
wear red underwear on Valentine's Day.
I wish mad old Nietzsche were right -
wouldn't it be lovely
living this unexceptional life
over and over
all eternity . . .
