at sixty

please, don't tell me
that i'm old. can an old
man do this, i say,
and reach down like
a dancer to touch my toes.
can an old make love
in the morning, and again
at noon, and finish off
the night with one more
round of passion
beneath the white sliver
of moon, no, don't tell me
i'm old just yet. the old
don't sing like i do, or run,
or climb trees to shake out
the fruit in season. yes,
the hair is gone, the
vision blurred, the memory
weak. yes, there are more
wrinkles from the sun
and worry, and there is less
and less interest in what
the world is up to, but
please, please don't call
me old. now come here, take
my hand and let's dance.