In my skittish youth
I often worried
I was losing my mind.
Not the romantic, Byronesque
version of madness,
but flaky ideas,
psychic torment,
losing my grip.
I did get through school,
had several good friends,
stayed married,
was a passable father,
performed my job to its end,
despite the many
pitfalls and perils
along the way.
When I retired they gave me
a comb and brush set
but I kept them in the cellophane
to keep them from getting tarnished.
Now that I’m firmly entrenched in old age
I never worry about losing my mind.
I think this means I’ve made it.
