What is the value of being old
if you’re not a cheese,
a wine,
a vintage car,
or an oil painting by some dead Italian.
A graduation corsage pressed flat in dear diary.
Love letter bliss-scented with ignorance.
Yearbook incantations remind you that you could have been…

a contender.

Why are some old things revered and others reviled?
Some adored and others abandoned like treasured toys we’ve broken or outgrown.

I see a future of stewed prunes,
crude rooms, rheumy eyes
filled with vacant stares
and the smell of things
I’d forgotten, I’d forgotten.

We all dine at the mortality table
but some of us leave early
so as not to get stuck with the check.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung