So,
I’m not dead yet.
80th birthday came and went
with me listening to a lot of people
telling me I don’t look my age
and certainly don’t act it.
Someone even got me a T-shirt that says
Shenanigator. It’s an XL so I can keep
eating what’s wrong for me.
It’s a number I explained,
not an age.
Age is cheese and wine.
And as long as Clairol exists,
I will have purple hair.
I am impressed that I still have
a sense of humor available
without using anything illegal.
Again. Yet.
I have been trying to decide what is left
for me to do or be.
Since my age and number have no real connection
and never have,
the answer I arrived at is anything I want
that doesn’t involve
a lot of moving parts: my pieces and parts
have taken a beating and rust is everywhere.
After all the years of not liking modern technology,
I can now report that a keyboard and screen
make some of the best friends
a semi-aged, rusted introvert could ever have.
So much to learn. So many to bark at.
Or not respond to. Or simply delete.
(Ah, delete. Wizardry at its best.)
Or push the cursor around
and I get me to another planet.
I love this part of my life
more than some of the rest.
People expect less
and I like to keep upping the ante.
Why not?
Who really knows where the road goes?
My shelf life remains a mystery.
