I have a notion I’m growing old:
I doze while reading, and mind the cold;
I’d rather not go–I prefer to sit;
And I’ve no will left, for I just submit.
A shiny car–even clothes all new
Convey no thrill like my slippers do.
My middle’s bulging, my suits advise;
I read of sports for my exercise.
My curiosity’s even dead:
New folks next door, and–what’s that you said?
A well-built lovely with hair spun-gold?
Hand me my glasses–I’m not so old!
by Ray Romine Sunday, January 20, 1946
