With attentive fingers she played with my hair, In that sleep inducing way women do. Will she still do it when I am canescent, And will her touch feel as genuine? I see blizzards when I think of old age, Fearing to be at the wide aisle check out, With a sumptuous convenience meal for one, Gurning at Margaret's drooped bosom in a tabard. Sucking butterskotch, And arriving too early for a free ride, So that I can argue with the black driver. Maybe she and I will grow old together, But I live in hope, We stay young together. I will pretend your gravy tastes better than my Mums, And you will admire my crooked empty shelves. But I know my face will be covered in wrinkles, From a life of happiness.