ON GROWING OLD

 

(On the golf course, my playing partner was ruing his age and jokingly I told him how 
hard I found it to come to terms with my own age, that I found it hard to accept that every 
sixteen year old girl wasn't necessarily exactly busting to get into bed with me. From 
addressing his ball, he looked up with a baleful look and remonstrated, 'It's when a sixteen 
year old girl does want to jump into bed with you, and then you find that you can't do 
anything about it - that's when your age begins to tell.'  This poem was born.)

 
I'm sorry I don't seem to want to **** you any more,
But I still LOVE your home baked apple pie!
Whilst it was always loin and groin and sweaty thigh before, 
Now love's manifest in telly suppers; whilst we ignore
Jokes about 'Old Wrinklies', with that tolerance that you and I
Have gained from having been there, done that ("got the T-shirt"), 
And learning to endure, 
Increasingly creaky joints, the wrinkled skin and gnarled hands, 
From remembering not to try to pee uphill; and just lasting, by 
Not drinking too much coffee before a long car journey, and
Together, clinging to the wreckage, knowing that the sands
Of time mean that, now, through the long night, wide awake we lie 
Regretting pigging all that pudding ("Pass the cream jug") 
- That home baked apple pie!

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