When she turns fifty,
she’ll be old.
When she turns fifty,
her hair will be white.
When she turns fifty,
her walk will be stuttered
like her tongue
and her hand jobs.

She’ll have gone rotten
by then.
She’ll have reached her prime,
past it,
then eroded
to next to nothing
when she turns fifty.

It is far away
and hard to imagine
that distance future
when she has fallen into decrepitude
and decay
and I will be long gone
for when she turns fifty
I’ll have died long ago.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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