At forty years, the clock speeds up a notch
and one may gaze in wonder at this junk
accumulated, stashed in drawer and trunk
and seldom taken out to read or watch.
At fifty years, you’re crazy to go on
collecting more, it’s time to take a break
and have a piece of tasty chocolate cake
or beer to chase a yummy curry-prawn.
At sixty years, the sofa beckons more
and friends are fewer, many gone for good,
becoming amber in a Pliny wood.
Perhaps it’s time to tally up the score.
Those camarones – ah, I taste them still
with fresh-squeezed lime – an epicurean fill!