AT 65

Can we call it just
another day, another passing
of the sun overhead
to get things done, one
to measure, fill the seasons,
months and years
facing first light
from the same door
through which we retire
to our sweet gloaming?

Looking back and forth,
Janus has nodded off
with each new plan
to work around the weather
when it doesn’t rain,
cattle in the hills—
like counting blades of grass,
we can bale them now,
box them to gather dust.

Young men play so hard
it almost hurts to watch—
remembering: time shot
one moment to the next
like endless ammo
through an assault rifle.
Young men figure
they’ll retire
just to play harder.

That old saw
about taking better care
if we’d known
we’d live this long
cuts true and deeper
than when I first heard it
from the old men betting
I’d never see thirty—
but luckily I played
on credit.