In Which A Lad Is 43

Before the sunset, in the gloaming, from
The batwing doors you stepped. Of course I knew
'Twas you, but for a moment I played dumb.
Those years were painful; I'll have naught to do
With them. But you saw me, have no regrets,
And said hello. And you, dear boy, whose name
Is childhood, stand, all grown-up, quite well-met,
And in your prime. Where others at this same
Stage hid their greys and wrinkles, you just wear
Them like they fit. I hope I can as well.
Life's long yet, and we've burdens yet to bear
Unknown to those who fight their age. I'll tell
You this: you comfort me, just standing tall
And nodding, taking it for good and all.

In Which A Sonneteer Looks At Forty

As ages go, there seems true magic here:

So many folk have told me how they wish

They could be forty, so it's without fear

I face it now, no longer thirty-ish.

The baby boomers all like to declare

Their current age as "the new forty", so

'Twould seem I'd best get used to being where

I am right now; there's nowhere left to go!

My schoolfellows of old all liked to quip

That I had been born forty, which would make

Me eighty now. It's really no mean trick

To look this good at eighty, no mistake!

But soon enough all will be redefined

And I'll be back to twenty. I don't mind.