38

You know when you’re getting old
when you can say I did this, or I did that
twenty years ago. And twenty years ago
you were an adult.

Twenty years is a fuck of a long stretch.
Two decades. Governments change hands.
Fashions change. People you grew up with, die.
But the years mean shit. It’s just a period of time.
It’s your body that brings tears to your eyes.
You bitch about wrinkles. Clothes not fitting.
You become as self obsessed as a teenager.
The butt of your partners jokes.

Growing older engenders a mistrust for memory.
I find it hard to associate with youthful experience.
The years harsh on aspirations, cruel on intentions.
Each new dawn brings fresh false promises.

‘You’re only ten years older than me,’ she said.
‘You’re not in the grave yet.’

No. But I feel I’m peering in.

© 2008 Andrew Lander