Man of Ages

The girls crowded the pavement, three abreast all tapping at their phones, going to class, one saw me, pushed her friend across the chest, 'get out the way, and let the old man past'. Old man? I looked around, did they mean me? Is that who I've become, how I'm perceived? Age sixty-one, grey hair, that's what they see am I older than inside I believe? For in my mind, sometimes I can be twelve, or sixteen, giddy from first love's kiss, mid forties, and then happy in myself, not thinking of a future such as this. They say that name tags are just sticks and stones, no consolation for old, weary bones.