My Santiago

No-one gets out alive

He saw himself differently, In his mind’s eye, As somehow more graceful in the stages of ageing.

To him, In optimistic moments, He had the sophisticated air of the older, still attractive, intellectual.

But these things had a habit of letting him down, All too often, At the best of times.

That inevitable snapshot, Taken with reluctant permission, By some eager-beaver, do-gooder,

-

So-called friend-acquaintance -

from some three decades back, With whom he had not grown old, Pulls him up short.

Yet he smiles, Presents his imagined, best side-profile, And the ‘I-have-stopped-time-poor-you-subject-to-its-ravages’, inward smile.

But pictures do not tell half-truths, And he sees himself as he is, Now 30 years on from that virile, full headed, Young man.

Now, Older, Greyer, Fatter.

With less lustre, Less bounce, Yet still smiling; Grimly,

Simply hanging on!