I’m 66, retired for now, sheltering at home — now more than ever — and unsure of the future. When I’m confused, I break out in 5-7-5 American-style haiku about what’s on my mind. It’s better than drinking.
My zest for haiku came from an 80’s-era career as a technical writer. All end-user documentation was written in haiku. Or should have been:
Now press any key.
Excepting the “Any” key.
It does not exist.
Now my thoughts dwell on old age and retirement living. Let me inflict my thoughts on you. In haiku.
Telemarketer.
Calling from far, far away.
You’re NOT Medicare.
The senior trap.
Talk only to those like you.
Throw blame at the young.
I’m physically fit.
For a senior, but goddamn!
Side planks just wreck me!
In a civil war,
your monthly SS payment
may not come on time.
We last dined out on
March eighteenth, twenty twenty.
But hey, who’s counting?
“Golden Years” my ass.
They can only be golden
if you’ve got the gold.
The highway of life.
No one has paid the road crews.
Potholes multiply.
Seventy’s many things.
But if it’s “the new forty,”
why do my joints hurt?
Invest, cry the old.
In firms that exploit us all.
The house always wins.