Each birthday after seventy’s
like going over par.
The putts you dropped now roll aside.
Your drive does not go far.
The layups that were breakaways
since days when you were small
are now chased down by faster men.
You often eat the ball.
The hanging dinger you just hit
dies on the warning track.
You know you need some sit-ups,
but they always hurt your back.
A well-paced walk around the block
would surely do you good.
But your aching legs now creak
as if they’re made of wood.
Your life is on the champs tour now.
You play from shorter tees.
Nine holes instead of eighteen
will go easy on your knees.
And if you do at this age
entertain a sporting jag,
please, please, say no to football.
That’s the time for your white flag.
