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Retirement is like an inheritance:
you get lucky overnight, it’s a paid
post for life; at last, the man of substance
you become faces the future unafraid.
You ditch the old rhythm of nine to five;
one by one, the acquired obligations slip
into oblivion, the more you become alive
the more responsibilities you clip.
No one blames you as you pass through in their
midst, sauntering abroad during working hours,
riding the public, flashing your silver hair,
they do not envy you your fading powers.
In romantic life reduced libido is
a blessing in disguise, is not a foil
for vanity, and being out of the rat race
sweet companionship is sex off the boil.
In the family you occupy the perennial
cameo role, anything from pa to grandpa;
with birthdays and Christmas familial
echoes of the will, whose prospect you are.
One does not know how long the idyll
will last, whether months or years, the expected -
one thing's for sure, the day'll
come; they’ll hardly breathe a sigh, ‘He’s dead.’ |
