Sixty Eight Poem by Mike Quinn

 

Sixty-Eight

by Mike Quinn

If Genie hides his face from all but the very young 
And Music pines for a fresh, youthful date
May I siren for the Muse if my song is almost sung
 And snare her at the age of sixty-eight?

The Muse replied (to my surprise) 

What a foolish question for you to ask 
The math is easy for such a task.

Does sixty-eight not contain within its rounded number 
A host of memories, stories and ages
Like thirty-four, who swung at life with a mighty lumber 
Or seventeen, whose hands wrote out the opening pages?

I will help your creative engine hum
But little wisdom have I to impart
To one with multiples embedded in his sum

Your stories and messages will surely come

So place your fingers on the keyboard and start.