If this house were a woman

If this house were a woman,

She’d be told,

She looks good for her age,
Not really old.

Heading into her second century,

She’s got a few wrinkles,

A few joints that creak.

She suffers from incontinence,

Under the kitchen sink.

The plaster carries scars,

From a ladder of years,

Evidence of movement and growth,

The legacy of child-sized mountaineers.

She’s got good bones,

And a strong foundation.

But neglect and patchwork fixes,

Detract from her reputation.

If this house were a woman,

She’d fetch few winning offers,

For nothing depreciates more than a woman,

When time's an unwelcome stalker.

Thoughts of an older gentleman

I see,

Newly formed breasts,

A well-developed flank,

And the deliciously plump backside.

The glow of ripening fruit.

But I mustn’t.

Distinguished gentlemen such as myself,

Mustn’t see these things.

We must play our role in the charade,

Appear blind to the allure of youth.

The absurdity of age,

Leaves you wanting when,

You’re no longer wanted.

The neighbour’s daughter,

Feels the whisper of my attention,

Dismisses it with the flick of a finger.

It’s not for me that she prances,

Although she’s accustomed to my gaze,

Just one more unwanted witness.

Dirty old man.

I admit it freely,

That I am.

Age classifies me as such,

But for the wrack of time,

A would-be admirer.

In truth,

We never stop seeing.

We live closeted,

In our forbidden sight.

God,

Strike me blind,

That would be a kindness;

Because I can’t stop seeing.

An undated era

We are of a certain age
Where hair thins and greys,
Skin wrinkles and sags,
Waistlines are lost to time.

We find attraction in conversation, companionship;
Aligned beliefs and politics.

Your preference in Sunday morning radio hosts and non-fiction authors,
Lure women to bed now.

A night on the town in your 20s;
A few drinks, some well-chosen lines,
Were enough to pull the ladies,
And replenish a little black book full of-
Potential late-night companions.

Years pass, the pages of that book wrinkle and fray,
A reflection of your own metamorphosis.

Until finally, there's no book;
Only the occasional line tossed out,
On the sea of virtual romance,
Where one word stands for a night's worth of banter.

isthisevenworthit81

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