There Are Still
My hair, up there, is
and what is left, they tell me, gray;
but I guess I just don't give a damn--
never knew mirrors to measure men.
And I still drive and have the itch to go
see which mountain can top the other,
to see some places I ain't ever been
and, likely, will never go see again.
And there are still rivers I'd like to fish,
some unmarked aces left to play,
some ice cold beers to up and down
and some apologies to pass around.
If you've any comments about this
poem, J.D. Heskin
would be pleased to hear from you.