Three A. M.

You wake from a pleasant dream 

to discover it’s three a. m., 

you have to pee, 

and you’re nearly seventy years old. 

It takes a bit to figure out 

which is the dream, 

the pleasantness, 

or being almost seventy years old. 

I can’t remember 

what it was like 

to think like a teenager 

or go all day 

like a ten year old. 

Tammy says 

I will never be old, 

but despite her optimism, 

here I am, 

sliding into old age, 

with conversations 

about retirement 

and replacing joints. 

At twenty, 

I thought seventy would be ancient. 

Now, at sixty-nine, 

it doesn’t seem so old. 

“I’m young at heart.”

“I have a youthful spirit.” 

These are things 

an old person says 

when they refuse 

to accept they are old. 

I am old. 

I am in relatively good health. 

I still work ten-hour days 

then teach at night 

Days fill themselves 

with ordinary things. 

They settle one atop another. 

Then, you wake from a pleasant dream. 

It’s three a.m. 

You have to pee. 

And you’re nearly seventy years old. 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

October 2, 2026