When I’m Older
A prose poem and speculation

When I’m older I’ll drink and write poetry until it feels like morning again (although I’ll be home and asleep before the moon is high)
I’ll hoist a pint with the other white-haired loungers at the bar And recite yearning odes to loves lost, found and lost again And they’ll snort and tell me to watch the game (Philistines all, but decent company for a Tuesday afternoon)
I’ll flirt with the bartenders Girls and boys both if they’ll have me Because I’m harmless and a little bit cute and they work for tips (and I’ll be joyful in it, because all relationships are somewhat transactional anyway)
And when someone, perhaps a woman of a certain age, Who understands that an analogue fossil like me can’t be credibly employed in this virtual world Asks What are you retired from?, I’ll straighten up to my full height, once five feet nine inches but diminished of late By poor posture and compressive gravity And say Madam I am a fucking poet Would you like to come home and read my sonnets?
Submitted in response to J.D. Harms’ prompt:
