When I’m sixty six,
how will I be?
Will I sit near
ivy covered window
knitting all day
small little sunflowers
on Christmas sweaters,
shouting at the kids
making a lot of noise?
Or will I sit
on the old oak bench,
reading a red hardback
near the pavement
with freshly baked cookies
for the people who pass by
wishing them a good day?
Or will I go for hikes
up the highest mountain
with fruits in my satchel
and sticks in my hand?
What should I be,
the grumpy, sweet or wild?
Maybe I’ll be none of these,
maybe I’ll be all of these,
or I’ll just be
the drunk old lady
who wished to be buried
with her favorite wine glass.