Hoping we’ll be old coots,
walking hand in hand,
less so from affection than
to help each other stand.
Hoping we grow old together,
sharing aches and ague,
passing gas without apology,
couldn’t hear that, could you?
Hoping we’re the ancients we love now,
some sagging, gravity the king,
my hair white, yours still red,
some vanity still reigning.
Hoping we’re the elders,
wise and otherwise.
Time remaining all that matters,
all arguments small-sized.
If that future’s not ours,
these days must fit our plans.
Let’s use them up completely,
in every way we can.
Let’s eat unwisely, sometimes
and drink more than is fair.
We’re not rich but we can act so,
at least one day each year.
Today’s that day, for certain.
Which other would we choose?
You’ll always be my Valentine.
You’ll always be my muse.
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