I grow old.
My teeth chew sand to say it,
like Quints fingernails
across that chalk board.

I said,”I grow old.”

Not

“I’m getting older”.

That’s for a 17 year old to say
as he stretches for the day
he turns 18,
to have a beer or
go to war or
give his heart to Jesus.

I grow old.

I haven’t the need
to plan to far ahead.
30 years from now,
it won’t matter!
I’ll be dead.

So what can I plan for?
Today,
probably.
Tomorrow,
maybe,

but who knows?

For I grow old.