‘When I am old, I will wear purple!’
– A Warning, Jenny Joseph
When I am old, I will degenerate.
My joints will moan and bitch, and getting out
of bed will be a trial. All those years
of healthy eating, going to the pool,
and cycling to work will so have been
in vain. You can’t hold back the foetid tide
of geriatric decay. Sixty isn’t
the new forty, despite the narcissistic
delusions harboured by arse-brained journalists.
Mealtimes will be a bowl of pills: there won’t
be room for any real food. The day’s
greatest adventure? Making it as far as
the television room, where, slumped in front
of Netflix, sleep will interrupt the narratives.
The melancholy strains of afternoon
will kill my spirit further, when I see
that yet another day has somehow slipped my
grasp. I’ll wonder how I ever got so old
so fast. The night will bring its old regrets,
and sleep will be my practice for the grave.
Did someone call my name? No? Never mind.
When I am old, I will die...