What does it mean to
"grow old gracefully"?
And, do I have to?
Dad sort of did (I think)
But I remember him
advising - repeatedly -
"Don't grow old. It's bad business."
So now with that script
running in my head, I resist
"What is"
Things I can't do any more
(too frustrating to list here)
Things wrong with my body
(too depressing to list here)
Loved ones and friends dead
(too many to list here)
Kerouac said
"That nothin' means nothin' is
the saddest thing I know"
I wrote this poem in hopes
of carthartic release
but now I'm lower than before
and that mystical state of gracefulness
seems further away than ever
seems an impossible task
seems . . . inauthentic
I know what to do:
Tap into my Welch roots and
"rage, rage against
the dying of the light"
Now...what does it mean to "rage"?
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