Old Age Blues

I knew him. At sixty-five plus his pituitary,
king of glands, was strong and played its part.
Each king needs a queen, but the wife would pillory
his old age hungers as vulgar, call him old fart.
A pity. With skin so smooth free of wrinkles,
her smile a sunshine yet, his memory swings in
a past with passion’s thrills, his eye twinkles.
But the fish, a long way to swim, loses its fins.
Close family friends, we all often met:
bonds connecting us males ran deep and led
to dark secrets; women, secretive, couldn’t get
half as intimate. Her version remains unsaid.

She had developed anger as pretence, a fine art
to rebuff him. Women very clever at subterfuge,
turn inventive as devils, and seek refuge
in the caves of aches and agues; they outsmart.
Frigidity, a state of mind, a refusal to receive,
that the sub-conscious physically translates.
It’s as if mind unvexed were eager to retrieve
some reason to resile, and it unkindly grates.
Match-slick, just a match away from the flame,
finds it too late to follow the updated trend
when sticks with headier stuff than pith of blame
in its head, strikes any surface to gain its end.

Women hold the key to old age’s delight,
the hallowed inn-keeper; when she loses the key
to the kingdom, it’s tragic. Lacking insight,
the dim light stops short of seeing beyond the lea.
Never undervalue old age, there are more things
in this life than youth can boast of. No fling
or flame leaving ash, but a mature fire that brings
more warmth than heat, the heart ushers in a spring.