He wants to run down hills
But his legs won’t cooperate.
He wants to go all night dancing
But 10p.m. is way too late.
He wants to go to Bar-B-Q parties
And eat until he wants to pop
But after a plate of that food
He know he had better stop.

He wants to read a book a day
By a great American author
But he knows after an hour
He’ll be asleep, so why bother?
He wants to go out drinking beer
On Saturday with his buddies
But that was way back before
He turned into a fuddy-duddy.

He used to be able to tell jokes
And leave the guys in stitches.
Now the only stitches he deals with
Are those letting out house britches.
He used to comb his thick burly hair
Into some becoming hairstyles
And now to beat it into some shape
Always takes quite a little while.

He remembers being able to sleep
All the entire night through.
Now, that is simply not what
His old body is going to do.
He’s going to get up at least twice
If he have a drink after three p.m.
Otherwise, it’s off to the john.
He accept this, says, “It’s who I am.”

He has to remind himself a lot
That he’s been around a while
And should be greatly thankful
That he can be this old and smile.
So he doesn’t ***** all that much
That he is no longer all that hot.
He doesn’t count what he no longer has
He celebrates what he’s still got.

With all its self inflicted hurt
Mankind still crawls to another's need
rebalancing the scales of justice.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.