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by Don Thackrey

Those lumpy bags beneath your eyes, old man,
Are vile, as is your voice’s croaky sound.
I wonder what on earth could be God’s plan
To keep someone so worthless still around.
Old age cannot be cured by one more pill.
Your hair is gone, your yellow skin hangs loose,
It’s long past time for reading of your will:
Good Lord, you’re still alive. What’s your excuse?

You’re right, young man, I’m now an empty shell
Of one who once was young like you, rude, bold,
But God asked me to stick around a spell
To help the young learn something from the old:
These signs of age are messages I wear;
Read well my lines; you’ll find your future there.

Don Thackrey lives in Dexter, Michigan, where he is retired from the University of Michigan and spends his days and nights studying words.

Pat Jones
Published 30 May 2011