Could this really be my drinking companion of yesteryear?
He’s fit, the embodiment of 60 being the new 40.
Nevertheless, up close, the bald dome, the leathery skin of his neck, betray his age.
I say I jog daily, but he’s doing marathons.
I mention life’s ups and downs, but he won’t acknowledge the batterings of time, telling me “a positive attitude is what counts.”
He must go, has things to do.
He strides off as if showing me how purposeful his life is.
Yet, all I see is a man who died a long, long time ago.