I am not dead yet; yet I am told
that having passed the 60th milestone
of my life, I am too old
to be of any corporate use; a tombstone
shall be the next signpost
of my existence. I am now obsolete.
After sixty years of usage, my cost
has been depreciated to nil in life’s balance sheet.
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I am not dead yet; yet retirement
is like a dress-rehearsal for death,
a premature winter before autumn unspent,
when I still have faculties of mind, of breath,
of feeling heart telling me that I am alive.
Now, I must convert unwanted skills
into irregular income, to survive
the period pains of monthly bills.
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Published in WHEN BUSH COMES TO SHOVE & OTHER WRITINGS (2006). |
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