Ready to fly off
die off,
cry
off,
boredom likes to kill.
People I have known
who’ve flown,
took the final bow
how I miss them.
Old men and memory
are taking me, but
I will resist them,
I have no time for old men
although the
ladies are quite sweet.
But it’s a numbers game
and
when
you’re in the frame behind
the eight,
however early
you’ll be late.
I count another wrinkle
or perhaps it’s just a crease,
one more fold,
a bit like origami
for the very
very old.
Happy that’s it’s Saturday
and now
I’m going out to play
bye.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.
