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Men at Sixty, by David Lee Garrison


They sleep only six hours

a night and sometimes

during that brief span

wake up in terror.

They get up and open a door

to breathe in the sky;

each morning their dogs

are glad to see them.

Some take aspirin

before they play tennis,

write wills

directing that their ashes

be spread on clay courts.

They have a lot to remember,

more than they have

to look forward to.

If in the church choir

they enter

one measure too early

on the Hallelujah Chorus,

they will not be

too embarrassed

because they know

they’ve done worse.

These men

put more and more

pepper on their potatoes,

jam on their toast.

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