The letter came from the Doctor,

stamped, addressed formally,

an oddness to the finality they were offering me,

welcoming me with open arms

to attend a special clinic

for those entering

the next demographic,

that of the adventure

of terrible middle age.

 

No longer to be considered a young man,

I’m now just a few years shy

of receiving a free gift

from Michael Parkinson.

 

I can be checked for diabetes,

having had myself tested every year,

to assess the risk of impending

heart failure,

to nag the once lover

of pure delight,

soft silk whisky

into cutting back from

my intake of nothing,

to register the warning signs

of boredom

that is just around the corner

and the spectre, the ghostly form

of suffering nights in

and complaining about the lack of

things to do for people of my age

which don’t require a form

signed in black ink from my children

or the one off payment

towards insurance.

 

Middle age,

the Ghoul that Time places at the door,

the invitations to talk about

your bowels, your diminishing dreams

and the advance classes

to get you in the mood

for the step beyond,

of senior moments

and the I remember when’s.

 

Ignoring the letter is easy,

go about my business,

continue to be an opium user,

in the form of pain killers

and party on,

for I swear, that no matter

what the Doctor says

I will never to be too old

to rock and roll.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016.