I never thought I’d get there
to sixty two,
but where the fuk am I?

heading to the fountain
watching as this mountain crumbles.
he mumbles, fumbles in his pocket
pulls out a handkerchief
(initialled in the corner )
because one cannot be too careful
wipes away a tear from the one good eye

I seeya, says the budgie
a companion of many years
( filled with millet seed and too
many phobias and fears)

If I do see sixty three
forget the candles on the cake
the fire brigade would take a dim view
even in the bright light.

That’s it for now
I shall learn to read the map
have a tea and
take a nap.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.