I am on the cusp of phlegmatic senescence.
I won't be running a four-minute mile, or one
In ten minutes, or running at all. I've given up
Mowing most of the lawn to my son, who's
Not only younger, but fat. I nap not long
After I've finished work, and I wake up still
Tired, unwilling to act. By any measure,
I'm worn, unappealing, so why do I bother
To dream of engaging that woman who's
Not even half my age?