Act III
The signs suggested that my time was short,
To which I gave a disbelieving snort.
My future debts were paid in full, they say,
Before I was required to join the play.
The time has come for me to act my age
And to rehearse my exit from the stage.
Although I wonder where the years have slipped,
Till curtains close I’m sticking to the script.
A lot of things don’t matter anymore—
For good or ill, I’m headed out the door.
A Refusal to Grow Old Gracefully
—after Peter Pan
The best I can is not the best I could
When I was made of sturdy gopher wood.
This wave-wracked ark, once clad in sinewed brawn,
Will with its pilot someday soon be gone.
The doors of my perception flap like boards
Unhinged, foreboding what I’m heading towards.
Though some have said my judgment’s gone awry,
Well, so has theirs, and it’s no wonder why
I get to laugh when laughter is de trop,
And no one cares if I don’t say hello.
I’m sure it has to do with newfound youth,
A second childhood, if you want the truth.
C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
