“What I look forward to is continued immaturity followed by death.” –Dave Barry
Paul wrote When I’m 64 in ‘58
he was 16, I still had all my hair
and teeth; no tattoos,
or children, certainly no grandchildren.
I had yet to inhale the scent of Jamaican Sumatra,
experience a hoppy IPA glide down my parched throat,
be thrown into a paddy wagon that smelled of warm urine
or cross the blue and yellow finish line on Boylston Street.
I hadn’t tasted chilled runoff from Mount Baldy,
confused my grandson Jesse with Joey.
I didn’t know chocolate was an aphrodisiac,
didn’t know what an aphrodisiac was.
Today Paul plays When I’m 64 at 74,
so does Ringo at 76;
Mick still sings Satisfaction at 72
though he swore he wouldn’t after he turned 45.
Which tells me at 62 not to miss one moment
not a single breath
so that the day you sit on a ridge
10,000 feet in the crisp mountain air
and watch the birth of your children,
then walk arm-in-arm up the aisle with your baby girl,
and laugh at little Lucy pull up her top and point at her belly button
the view is exquisite.