Ivan Donn Carswell Poems

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It’s Wednesday, September 6th and a birthday,
again, these things arrive tediously on time
with wry regularity – and sadly, no sense
of providence or charity.

Instead of counting a year less I am
said to be blessed with sixty one
while actually I’m the age where I want
to regress about six, hover around
say, fifty five, start a new career.

But I doubt the World will cheer
at the thought of that or be as magnanimous
when I invent an age-reducing elixir /regime,
start a seditious scheme depriving younger generations
of their sexagenarians, septuagenarians,
octogenarians and nonagenarians – and any
centagenarians still kicking ass.

It would be considered a crass abuse of
aged-privilege (which I have yet
to discover the whereabouts of)
and a waste of rare resource opportunity,
meaning I couldn’t be exploited as easily.
Alright, I’m just having some fun,
I used to think sixty one was old
way back when I was fifty five,
before the arthritis set in.
© I.D. Carswell

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