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30 Years

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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