The double-edge of old age
is that you forget so damn fast.
You no sooner turn the page
than you forget what you read last.
The novel renews itself
by escaping from the past.
Books put in their place on the shelf
decline politely to be typecast.
It’s as if you can live
life over, barely remembering,
as if memory’s a sieve,
flowing, not dismembering.
You see, you can relive the best
and bury the very worst,
pass the hardest test
and stand not last but first.
Your heirs might sadly think
that you’ve lost your mind,
or taken clandestinely to drink,
wondering if your will's signed.
It’s really none of the above.
You still have all your marbles.
Your heart sings like you’re in love,
but your brain sometime warbles.
It’s not that you’re breaking laws
which old age is absently abetting.
It’s that the past’s not what it once was
and needs a hell of a lot of editing.
