I know this old man, every line in his face
Is a memory we share. The gray hair was
Once blond, his belly once rippled with muscle.
Yet, he does not look like the guy I know,
The guy I knew. Years are a kind of deceit.
His true age in his eyes, bright with promise,
Still filled with ambition, bearing the weight
Of ten thousand steps, a thousand missteps.
Hang in there, old man. Your age is not
In sagging flesh or aching joints, or even
Regret over precious time lost. The man
Is still capable of standing tall, measuring
Success and failure, seeing the features
Looking back from my dark, morning mirror.