Stick to a routine,
they tell me:
it is important to keep
regular.
But why? I respond.
Regular is boring;
regular is deteriorating;
regular numbs the mind.
What about the marvel
of serendipity,
the magical chaotic carpet
that has brought me
here, now, content?
You must focus,
they chant:
it will help
remembering things.
I already remember,
I scream:
why must I change
who I am
simply to become an older,
and less capable,
copy of a former me?
But you are older now,
they repeat,
and have to take care
of yourself.
They will repeat some old adage
or other,
designed to show me
the encapsulated wisdom
of the ages.
I laugh aloud,
and alarm the dog,
and do a little soft-shoe,
sip some fresh ground
Fair Trade coffee.
Then, abandoning all advice;
not caring for routine,
or focus,
I write this poem,
and continue to age,
but as me,
not a frail but organised,
focussed but bored,
copy of this
one and only
original
me.
