V. 2, #172: September 17, 2013

I might not have as much hair on my head
as sprouts in ragged tufts upon my face;
and stairs where formerly my steps had sped
on up, I now take at a slower pace;

I may not be as handsome nor as sleek
as when I drank from crystal springs of youth;
while knees and hips and other joints might creak
as ne'er they did ere I were long o' tooth;

You might find, on inspection, that my brain
is not the Tesla coil it used to be;
the lightning thoughts it once could not contain
reduced to static electricity;

But there's one comfort I still hold on to:
I may be old, my dear--but so are you.