Middle Age

I’m almost old enough
to know the difference
between feeling my age
and acting it,

speaking freely
and not knowing what to say,
breathing easy and taking time
to breathe when things get rough.

A song on the radio
still can tell me what I need to hear right now,
though I may no longer know the name
of every band and half of them

sound like something I’ve heard before;
but the beat still bounces me
and I’m still a sucker for the right
sharp lead in the right place.

But when it comes down to it,
who cares who’s playing?  Some knowledge
is unimportant, and I’ve learned
a lot of that kind of thing

at the expense of a lot of other things.
I’m old enough to know
I’ve missed out on a lot,
still young enough to hope for more —

more chances to learn,
more time to stop caring so much
for the scope of loss.  More time
to be glad I’m stupid enough

to be perpetually surprised
by something old in a new wrapper,
more time to say
I’m a foolish man, and glad of that.

So break out a new song,
let me stumble through the steps
of a dance I should know by now…
I’m old enough not to care,

young enough to believe
I’m still young enough to make it work,
old enough to know
that the end is always sure, 

young enough to forget long enough to try anyway.