A Poem On Turning 55 Poem by James P. Roberts

I still have all my teeth -Thank God!
Although the hair is thinning, it is still
mostly brown, with a little gray at the edges.
My sore punished feet are yet able to trod
down darkened streets at night, fingers nimble
enough to pick up a pen and fill these pages.

I wear bifocals now, the eyes have dimmed
from days when baseball was my desired glory.
I read books, one after another, each story
draws me away from a world condemned
to inevitable dissolution from wasteful ways.
This, mostly, is how I spend my days.

What I have been missing is love.
A woman to hold in my arms at night,
a pleasant face to gaze at in firelight,
a lilting voice to make my heart move.
At 55, time grows perilously thin.
A day ends, night draws dark: dreams begin.