Will I be old, contented, comfortable,
Leaning over to enjoy a loving kiss,
Cooking together, snuggling under wool
Blankets, waiting for the kettle's hiss,
Listening to problems calmly, patiently,
Always prepared to brew another cup
And talk it out? Or will I, desperately,
Cling to my failing youth, not giving up
The image of myself I now possess,
Unwilling to accept the honest truth,
Adapt to age and live in somewhat less
Extravagance than I did in said youth?
I cannot tell. And yet I'd hope to be
The comforter and not the comfortee.
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