I dream of certain things for my old age,
Fanciful whimsy that I do not subject
To nagging ethics
Or the moral considerations that have such pride of place today.
These fancies of mine are mostly philanthropic in nature,
Though they have a bit of a crust.
I want a porch.
A big wrap around affair, no screen, but fully covered.
I want a big chair of sorts
With the imprint of my bottom and my bottom alone.
I want to shake a stick at youthful types
Telling them loudly about gout and other wonders.
And I want a pipe.
I want to fiddle with the sweet smelling tobacco
And try to light it,
Lose track of the thing
And try again.
"Where were those matches again?"
(It's not a matter of forgetfulness, but insouciance.)
And I want to sit there and puff awhile in the summertime
Lingering over memories,
Perhaps cooking up hare-brained schemes.
I want my wife to come out with lemonade and say with crinkled nose,
"Are you bothering yourself with that stinky thing again?"
"Yes m'dear. And I love you dearly."
I want to be a piper piping.
And I want to glory in life which has been so beautiful.