This poem should complete the sequence begun with `Alive' in December.
I am getting fed up writing them but they keep coming.
......
At fiftyfive
You should know that my life has been a disaster.
I couldn't hold a job.
I never found a wife.
My health has been dreadful.
And the poetry was an absolute waste of time.
My little house, my little cat, my little car,
A hundred thousand dollars in the bank,
A greying head of hair, a flat scarred stomach;
I drink my daily quota of beer.
I wonder if I'll ever grow old.
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