Member-only story
Happy to Be Over the Hill
No need to shove, you soon will be there too
Daydreams of escaping my life,
seaside hideaway near Galway,
hidden on the west Irish coast,
cold rain, peat fueled fires, old books.
Fantasies of a mansion on Cape Cod,
overlooking the frigid Atlantic, watching
storms dance on endless water. Maybe
the streets of London, me searching
for Shakespeare in dark pubs, sipping
a pint of Harps, the bar older than my
country… all places I longed for but
I never imagined I would find myself
living in the land of lost dreams,
the land of Up, Up and Over the Hill.
You must have a passport for entry,
issued without choice the day you
turn sixty, then the shoving begins,
younger ones pushing from behind,
steadily moving you up the slippery
road, chanting move old man, get out
of our way, up you go, up and over
the peak… where there is now nowhere
to go but down. The young wear masks,
terrified of catching a terminal case
of saggy butt disease, screaming old
will never find me.
