by Ross Smith
I have looked at the world as from beneath a cocked hat.
Imagining a bit of ruffled lace at my throat,
Sporting slouched knee high boots.
As if I were immortal.
Now with the passing of time,
The hat is gone,
The lace is torn and yellowed.
The soles of the boots careworn.
Now the young with the exuberance of their age,
And strut about,
Modeling their invulnerability.