If I were thirty years younger,
I’d ask the woman at the bar
why I hadn’t seen her here before.
If I were thirty years younger,
I’d write down my phone number
and leave it next to her purse.
If I were thirty years younger
I wouldn’t leave this place alone,
the girl beside my table
would turn around and smile at me,
instead of past me
to some well-built, wavy-haired fellow
who’d rushed for 90 yards in last week’s
homecoming game.
If I were thirty years younger,
I wouldn’t be jotting down lines
about being thirty years younger,
I’d be living as someone that age
currently does – on some precipice,
with no fear of falling off,
having another round of drinks
with my lively, spirited friends,
exchanging flirtatious glances
with lovely young women
who are not too young for me
to respectfully eye
without feeling like a dirty old man,
and certainly not
carrying a notebook to a pub,
scribbling thoughts
that someone less than half my age
wouldn’t think to entertain,
shamelessly calling it a poem.
Andreas Gripp
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