The View from Sixty-Four

 

The Beatles lied—it’s not all wine and knitting,

Or mending fuses by the pantry light.

It’s more like realizing where I’m sitting

Is mostly out of everybody’s sight.

I’m sixty-four, a vintage sort of year,

Like slightly corked Bordeaux or fading lace.

I’m present, yes, but let’s be fairly clear:

I’ve developed a "no-priority" face.

I haunt the aisles of the local store,

A specter in a sensible beige coat.

I’m sure the cashier’s seen my face before,

But I’m just a smudge, a tiny, drifting mote.

I waited ten whole minutes for some ham,

The deli clerk looked *through* my very head.

I considered shouting, "Look at who I am!"

But settled for some packaged rye instead.

And God, the house is quiet—much too wide.

The "we" has shrunk into a brittle "me."

I still keep to my designated side

Of a bed that’s now a lonely, quilted sea.

I found your favorite mug behind the flour,

The one with chips along the painted rim.

I sat and stared at it for half an hour,

While the afternoon grew dusty, gray, and dim.

I made a joke about the evening news,

The kind of dry remark that made you groan.

But jokes are heavy things that you can’t use

When the only audience is skin and bone.

But there are upsides to this thin existence,

This slow dissolving into wood and brick.

I can eavesdrop with a practiced persistence,

And pull a disappearing laundry trick.

I don't need to suck my stomach in,

Or worry if my socks and tie agree.

I’m living in the "Used-to-Been" and "Been,"

And honestly? The parking's often free.

I’m sixty-four, and mostly made of glass,

Waiting for the world to look my way.

I’ll watch the busy, bustling shadows pass,

And miss you—just like every other day.