Less able, less worthy, less useful,

more vulnerable, weak, he needs care.

There’s life left in the old boy yet, you know,

they can cope with a lack of hair.

It’s true, that hair’s become thinner

and there are lines on show,

eyebrows are thicker and coarse

and ears continue to grow.

The bones in the face are like carved masks,

etchings splay around the mouth

wrinkles run off lips now lax

and the chin, the chin makes a point, goes south.

Plus, a neck of crepe doesn’t look so great.

A comfort is that so many relate,

and only the lucky get old.

Yes, only the lucky get old.

© Polly Stretton rewritten 2023

Original poem was published in Re-imagining Ageing Lab4Living & Sheffield Library (2022)