If I can’t blow bubbles in the bath
though I’m over fifty-five
what’s the point in being alive?
If I can’t puddle-jump in the street
soaking my feet
I might as well admit defeat.
If I can’t pull conkers from a tree
as I skip on by,
I might as well die.
If I can’t kick through piles of leaves
as autumnal winds blow
I might as well let go.
If I can’t muss up virgin snow
just because it’s fresh and there
it’ll be time for a wheelchair.
If I can’t accept that age is of the body
not the mind
have me confined.