Not Unfamiliar

I know this old man, every line in his face Is a memory we share. The gray hair was Once blond, his belly once rippled with muscle. Yet, he does not look like the guy I know, The guy I knew. Years are a kind of deceit. His true age in his eyes, bright with promise, Still filled with ambition, bearing the weight Of ten thousand steps, a thousand missteps. Hang in there, old man. Your age is not In sagging flesh or aching joints, or even Regret over precious time lost. The man Is still capable of standing tall, measuring Success and failure, seeing the features Looking back from my dark, morning mirror.