get the hell off my lawn

you know you're getting

old when

you take a jog

through the cemetery

and two guys

start chasing you with

shovels.

old joke, but

a good one.

i can handle the blurred

vision,

the inability to hear,

the aches and pains

in the joints,

heart burn, and having to

pee every thirty five

minutes to squeeze out

a few drops, but

i can't get used to some young

punks calling me

sir. or Mr.

get off my lawn, i yell out

from my rocking chair.

throwing an ice cube from

my gin and tonic

in their direction.

that just galls me.

be right back, got to go again.

where was i?

oh right. old age.

the sex drive doesn't seem

to die down,

which is a curse and a blessing

as you peruse

your dwindling speed dial.

death and senility takes its toll.

but now you feel like a kid

standing outside

the glass window of the bakery,

looking at all that pastry

and hot muffins,

and all you got is a plug nickel

in your pocket.