LIFEby Paul John Roach
Life.
It’s precarious.
My dad was taken
(As they say)
At 52,
Which I consider young
Being now 67
And hoping
For a few more good years.
The length of days
Is immaterial, of course,
The 27 Club, for instance,
D H Lawrence 45
Shakespeare 52
Elvis 42.
What are we to realize
In our allotted span?
(As they say).
Have we sloughed off
The accrued
That holds so tight
To the essential?
I don’t know.
It’s like being summoned
To the Headmaster’s study.
After the lecture
What is there to say, but,
“May I go now?”
Where are you going, lad?
To the bike sheds,
To the candy store,
To the pub,
To the dark haired girl
Who flirts,
And reminds you
That all things are possible.
Aren’t they?
I think so, but,
It’s precarious.