This poem is for Baby Boomers,
Most of us collecting Social Security
By now, many of us already retired in
Some shape or form, blessed by
Blessed Be, those defined benefit
Schemes we indentured ourselves,
Shackled to for so many years.
Now it's money every month for life,
A pension adjusted to the cost of living,
Inflation-proof as they say.
But who's to judge
When quality of life has its own
Net present value?

But we remain comfortable as they say,
With Social Security and VA benefits,
And the Roth-IRA,
The muni bonds and annuities, quite comfortable,
Thank you very much.
But just how comfortable?
Admittedly, much of my
Wellbeing, drug and/or alcohol-induced.
Prozac in the morning,
Xanax, as needed later,
Medical cannabis--preposterously legal in California,
And that reliable trio: beer, wine & hard liquor--
Scotch & Soda, my oblivion, my River Lethe--
And Ambien,
GENERIC NAME: ZOLPIDEM,
To sleep, perchance to dream.

Yes, of course, I am medicated.
Yes, without doubt,
I am mighty high.
And yes, I feel mighty good.
I deserve to.
I earned it.
Do I dare disturb my universe?
Try ******, just to see
What all the fuss was all about?
65: perhaps a suitable age for
The LSD trip I dared not take at 20.
No, a lifetime of bourgeois caution,
Years of playing it safe,
Mock me, even as they
Serve me in retirement;
Serve me well for the
Miles ahead before I sleep.
Serve me well for the
Miles ahead before I sleep.
Bite me, Robert Frost!
Do you ******* stutter?
Of course, I experience some difficulty
Coming up with a good reason for
Getting out of bed in the morning.
But who doesn’t at my age?

My Hemet porch:  so
Serene this time of year.
I require no western sunset,
No cool Pacific Ocean breeze or
Shoreline vista to soothe me now.
I’ve sailed the seven seas.
I've crossed the lines.
I am a square-knot sailor.
Initiated by Neptune himself,
I am Bluenose & Golden Shellback,
And sundry other salty achievements,
Crisscrossed on Mercator’s grid.
I've been wowed by spectral majesty,
Moonrise at sea, stars streaking,
I’ve rolled toward Tahitian beaches on
Sultry tides and currents,
To Polynesia in late austral summer.
I’ve sailed with Coleridge.
"Eftsoons," I ate the bird that flipped the bird.
Upon a painted sailing ship; upon a
Paint-by-number ocean.
Southward I fled, to
Fire and ice, and finally,
Atonement.
I am forgiven now, for
Having flipped my wig, at the
Bird that brought the
Fog and mist, and all the
Rest pulled from ***, of
Meshuggener, greybeard loon;
Crazy mariner's rhyme,
Perchance, to rime?
I flipped the bird, again.

I have no complaints.
Life owes me nothing.
Of course, I have trouble
Coming up with new excuses for
Getting off my bed each day.
But who doesn't at our age?