On The Lam

ON THE LAM
September 18, 1986

If I were fancying fifty
I'd know that I was old
by fading color and texture;
the growth of rust and mold.

If I were seeing sixty
I'd no longer be in jeans.
Nor would I then concern myself
with what tomorrow brings.

If I were seizing seventy
my hand would hold a cane
and every time the weather'd turn
my body'd writhe in pain.

If I were edging eighty
I'd plead my innocence
Of the robbing of my youthfulness
replaced with senescence.

If I were nearing ninety
I'd wonder who I am.
This can't be who I used to be,
I must be on the lam.

I pray there'll be no hundred
for this wacky climb to death.
The higher my ascension,
the lower that I get.