We decided not to think about being
as old as we were, fearing we’d soon feel
feeble, far removed from our youthful vision
of ourselves as old ladies in flowered dresses
on the veranda, drinking afternoon tea
while eating sweets because who cared
how fat we got, & besides, the dresses—
capacious, fluttery as butterfly wings.
But no, forget that, we wanted to look
younger than we were, not with the aid
of dyes or face work, just our attitude,
which face it hadn’t always been great,
resenting those who were more this
or more that before being chastened into
gratitude over the years as the end neared,
that death we didn’t want to think about
the way we had when we were young, oh
tender angst. By now we knew that lying
on our deathbed regretting time wasted
was probably inevitable, but why make it
worse than it had to be, why waste more
than we already had, dreaming ourselves
into other lives, other places, when each day
waited like a lover who knew our flaws
yet called to us anyway from the warm bed.