To Myself in Fifty
Years Time

Old fool!  You really think yourself the same
As I who write to you, aged 22?
Ha!  All we’ve got in common is my name:
    I’ll wear it out, throw it away,
    You’ll pick it up some other day....
        But who are you?

My life’s before me; can you say the same?
I choose its how and why and when and who.
I’ll choose the rules by which we play the game;
    I may choose wrong, it’s not denied,
    But by my choice you must abide....
        What choice have you?

If, bored, I think one day to see the world
I pack that day and fly out on the next.
My choice to wander, or to sit home-curled;
    Each place has friends, good fun, good food,
    But you sit toothless, silent, rude....
        And undersexed!

Cares and regrets of loss can go to hell:
You sort them out with Reason’s time-worn tool.
Today’s superb; tomorrow looks as well:
    The word “tomorrow” is a thrill,
    I’ll make of mine just what I will....
        What’s yours, old fool?

Robin Helweg-Larsen

If you have any comments on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen would be pleased to hear them.

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