Well, at our age, we often say,

As we start one more activity in the busy day.

Be it grocery shopping, or cell phone talking,

Or hatha yoga or charity auction hawking.

We start to think of our furrowed brows,

And our new daily mantra: peace right now;

Of our blossoming love for herbal tea,

Or beach trips that are just about watching the sea.

It’s suddenly clear, just how much we have shifted,

Towards the finish line of the lives we were gifted.

Snowflakes, crackling fire, fat book, old dog.

Today, this is what I call living high on the hog.

And when nostalgia suddenly seems to appear,

For velvet ropes, thumping bass, permanent high gear,

I rise and sprint in my orthopedic mules

To the nearby pantry, which has all the right tools.

A beloved blue teacup, bought when money was dear.

Add sugar, cocoa, flour, and maybe a single tear.

For we have reached the time when youth can’t be faked,

But oh bliss, oh joy, we can always have mug cake.