Halfway to a hundred, the back nine approaches,

perpetually carrying the weight of fatigue.

Suddenly the view of my feet is obstructed by an ever rounding belly,

where did that skinny boy go?

Staying up late and going hard all day,

a mere memory of the past.

Planning activities based on a limited energy reserve,

naps vital to the day.

Once mornings were attacked and sprung from,

now a time of great dread as beautiful sleep comes to an abrupt end.

My children are the same age as my mind remembers,

the glory days of old.

Time is a blur moving faster than thought can maintain,

the ease of youth quickly becomes the chase of middle age.

I’ve become the creepy old man telling stories of a wild buck,

nobody cares, just go sit in the corner and be quiet I’m told.

Funny when the roles reverse.


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