On Growing Old (Apology to W.B. Yeats)

The very idea
of being old
is comforting
time for renouncing-
nothing weighty
anymore to hold-

past stories
have been told
now is reminiscing

never mind
mistakes I made
every cause
I still have to celebrate

no stream is pure
some debris there is
in the water's flow

who dares say
old age is toothless?
That's awful rubbish!

jeans I don't wear
no Elvis's haircut
do I choose or prefer

didn't you see me
dancing on the stage?
Didn't you hear me
singing a serenade
to a pretty maid?

Youth might frown on
and make fun
of my baldness
but it's my pride
and I don't complain
of my slow gait
my brain is agile
and my thinking
is gloriously bright!

No mirror
do I look into
unlike youth's error

a little child
walks by and asks:
Sir, how old are you?

This- my immediate answer:
I was young like you -before!