You know you’re getting old when your
barber whispers, Can I snip your eye brows;
life’s hedging perennially clipped to mask
the gentle, yet relentless, march towards incapacity.
Inexplicable expansion; two identical pairs of
trousers hanging in the wardrobe (size 40 and 42)
feel shrunken and snug, respectively.
This leads to fears of firemen coming to lower me
from the upstairs window onto a flatbed truck
to attend a ‘weigh in’ on local TV.
Time to abstain and join the gym, or simpler perhaps,
buy a pair of 44s?
If you have any comments on this poem, Matthew
Smith would be pleased to hear them.