Bill Buege

Six Stages of Old Age

You've aged, become less flexible, grown softer.
Your day depends from what you meant to do.
Forget your pride. Old age begins with laughter.

You coaxed your wife to bed and tried to mount her,
lost your balance, grip, erection, knew
you'd aged, become less flexible, grown softer.

You thought you farted, did a good bit more,
squeezed your cheeks, and ran. It's easy to
forget your pride. Old age should fill with laughter.

One day your brand new dentures disappear.
No, they're in your mouth. Oh, shit, it's true,
you've aged, become forgetful, slower, softer,

but don't believe what's happening or care.
You're vanishing. No one remembers you
lived proud and strong. Old age should end in laughter.

You've chicken legs, a wattle like a rooster,
a pigeon's gait, a turkey brain. You coo
or gobble when you talk. You've aged, grown softer,
forgotten your first name, your pride, your laughter.

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Bill Buege does a lot of babysitting for his two grandsons, age 7 and 4. He writes and writes, having written somewhere near 2,000 poems over a long career of never getting very far. He can write a blank verse line because he spent his twenties reading Renaissance literature at Northwestern. He’s had around 80 poems accepted in a variety of magazines, including River Styx, Callalloo, The Hudson River Anthology, The Cresset, Chiron, Sou'Wester, Christian Century, Delmar, Haight Ashbery Poetry Review, Iris, and others.