A Difference of Fifty-Three Years
by Noel Peattie
Here is a magazine called Seventeen.
It comes out on the stands every month.
The girl on each cover is welcome
as cherry pie; she's tubbed, pure,
her hair is up, or ribboned.
Her life is all dresses,
parties, and little pink wishes.
She says to the world, Oh hurry,
hurry up, please, and it does.
Here is a man about seventy.
Why isn't there a journal called Seventy?
Because he isn't as welcome;
because nobody wants to be like him.
He says to the world, Slow down;
my flat feet can't keep up with you.
He whispers, I'm still alive.
But it doesn't slow down, the world.
It keeps on hurrying; for, see there,
an impatient virgin is waiting.
(Every day, an old man is buried).
Every month, there's another young girl.
Much to tell, friends. My first day as an intern, my first day of policy class... I will write tonight. For now, enjoy the poem.