One good thing at turning 57
I like odd years better than the even,
My sister likes the even more than odd
But then its just a number, isn't that right(?)
Its just a number but a bigger one
Than any of my birthdays come before;
What's gone down(?) amount of felt compassion
Given to my self or any other,
Its become more a fact than feeling
A principle of we are all-as-one
Except where animals are concerned, for them
I was not endowed with a filter
But am with them nerve endings raw;
My patience shrunk wide as my lanky legs
Though talent for pretending it intact, and
Letting go what's out control helps me
Maintain precious peace of heart and mind
(I can't believe how sappy that sounds, yet true);
It is sad that I no longer digest
Fried, runny, scrambled eggs or boiled,
Those same spots I watched my mother get
Found my hands(!) on me they're merely freckles
Which have always crossed my cheeks and nose
Still coming to fore with summer suns;
Toe nails are harder, some veins neon blue,
As if on cue rice paper skin
Here and there, not yet everywhere, and
Still amenable to heavy lotion;
I am ever so proud to have cultivated
Vast reserves of immaturity,
Though I creep-up on the moniker "old fart"
My imagination's barely three
(We all can visit there forever young)
And I must say I still look hot when wearing
daring swimming suits - from fifty yards
At dawn of dusk on a cloudy day.