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feeling weary, i sat to think about growing old...and then i did.

feeling weary, i sat to think about growing old…and then i did.

next year i will be old
and all my toys will be put away
in some attic
reserved for tired and worn childhood playthings

next year i will be old
and all my words will run together
like sentences void of punctuation
where my thoughts will be deadened
and out to recess

next year i will be old
and my stride will be slower
my steps shorter
as though i have nowhere to go
and am in no hurry to get there anyway

next year i will be old
and every minute spent walking
in some errant direction
will be tossed aside
like me
for next year i will be old

next year i will be old
and youngsters will stare
and snicker
at my plaid shirt and striped pants

my clothes will look
and smell
like the clothes
some old man wore
before i was old

next year i will be old
and i will wonder about the days ahead
but not for long
for my mind will step slowly
from the curb
and i will fasten the top button
on my plaid shirt
and realize that next year i will be old

i really should put away my toys now
in attics and closets
where they can someday be found
by an absent minded old man
in want of a yo-yo
but not able to remember why

next year i will be old
and i will tell my stories often

until then i will wait
for next year
for next year i will be old…