Middle-age is when
you begin to get sensitive
about the crowd swearing at bald refs.
It’s when your daughter’s
History homework’s on Dunkirk
and she asks ‘Were you around then?’
You look in the mirror every morning
glad that you’re short-sighted
and haven’t got your glasses on.
Certain nouns slip out of memory
to be replaced by verbs
like ‘to sleep’ and ‘to lie’.
It’s when you want time
to go rapidly to the next holiday,
yet halt completely before you die.
It’s when your appalling flatulence
is exposed to your spouse
and you don’t even bother to say ‘Pardon!’
You acquire irritable and incurable
ailments in corners of your body
and consider using herbal remedies.
You decide you need a new challenge:
working without a tie, your naked
adam’s apple is swallowed by the boss’s eyes.
Middle-age is when you take yourself for granted:
treat your dreams as pieces of furniture,
get rid of them on a skip.
It’s when you’re addicted to routine
and you don’t admit it, keep on taking it
till you O.D. on those same old scenes.
by Mike Jenkins
from This House, My Ghetto
Rambling At The Bridge Head 