"I'm old,"
you complain,
a cantankerous senior.
Wincing dramatically at the creak, the squeak,
of rusted geriatric bones,
you blink feebly behind thick lenses
and hang your grizzled head.
Nearby, your brown corduroy jacket
hangs lonesome in the closet,
holding the shape of younger self,
a crumpled receipt for the University bookstore
forgotten in a pocket.
Now you lecture in your pajamas
from behind your computer desk
as I, your student,
listen attentively to you, my senior.
"I'm old!"
you protest,
waving gnarled hands.
"Used up and brittle!
Now leave me be!"
How can I?
Beneath your deceptively wrinkled brow
greatness wastes.