An evening poet

When wrinkles line the face
Limbs help not much
It's difficult to keep up
With the young and their pace

One begins to think more
The things that he ignored
Which begin to make sense
And over which he ponders more

He is his only friend
And good friends of yore
None gives an ear to what he says
Without and within his own home

Such is the plight of those
When young don't bother
And the old expect more
His feet struggle in two boats

He has but limited options
To shut himself from the world
Or shut his mouth and live as such
Which he often does

He speaks to himself
What he feels and thinks
The others see and murmur
What has happened to him

Either he is mad
Or become senile
A poet he has turned
In the evening of his life!