Crabby Old Man

Pamela Tracy here. I don't get so many poems and jokes in my box anymore. I tend to delete them as I'm busy. This one, however, came with a picture of an elderly man. Last week, I put flowers on my dad's grave. I get to do that only every two to three years as I'm four states away from where I was raised. My dad was not a crabby old man. He was the best dad in the world. I hope your dad was standing next to mine in the race for best dad ever. I didn't see my dad often in his final years. This poem (maybe since I've just seen Water for Elephants) spoke to me. I also want to add a verse, one that has the inkling of what comes next: think Heaven.

What do you see nurses? . . . .. . What do you see?

What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?

A crabby old man . .. . .. . not very wise,

Uncertain of habit . . .. . . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food . . . . . and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!'

Who seems not to notice .. .. . .. . the things that you do.

And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not .. . . . . lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? . .. . . . Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am. . . .. . . As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of Ten . . .. . . with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters . . . . .. who love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.

Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide . . . . .. And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other . . . .. . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons . . . . . have grown and are gone,

But my woman's beside me . . . .. . to see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,

Open your eyes, People. . .This is the real me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.

I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing . .. . . . young of their own.

And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man . . . . .. and nature is cruel.

Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,

And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells.

I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.

And I'm loving and living . . . .. . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . .. . . . gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact . . .. . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people .. . .. . . open and see.

Not a crabby old man . .. . Look closer . . . see ME!!