You're running on the beach
     at sunrise.
          Be careful cowboy.
You've got 65 years on those lungs,
     but you're doing damn good
          for an ex-smoker.
               (with 27 million packages of
                king sized mentholated
                lights behind you),
‘Gasp’ is not a word
     you want some vandal to
          spray paint on
                your
                    tombstone.
‘Fear’ is just another storm,
     cloud hanging,
          3 and a half,
               miles out on
                    the horizon line.
You were born to sail,
     but they handed you
          Nebraska.
Sail on.
     You needed sky but they
           handed you Boodles gin and
               midtown.
Pillage on.
You old buccaneer...
     you’ve no disease. You're
          good for ten more years
               maybe 11.
No shoes necessary
     today
          clop thru the sand
               like one of those old
                    Central Park carriage
                        horses.
The haze will burn 
     off by
          9am.
Push on.
Until you feel like that
     Bourbon Street
          trombone player
              you
                 met
                    in
                      1983
                         the
                            morning
                                after
                                   Mardi
                                      Gras
then she's there,
standing over you,
the lady in the hat
with the small dog,
and she asks if you need  help.
Lie to her, 
and say you've been doing this
for twenty years
maybe 21