Standing , Still

When I was young and full of doubt

In city pubs, I would hang out

drinking pints and pints and more,

I always managed to find the door.

Feeling proud, when I'd had six, 

another downed, then I'd be sick, 

If I wasn't, I'd raise a hand, 

proud in that, I could still stand.

I'm older now, the last man standing, 

a journeyman on Life's long street, 

along the street for years and years, 

on cobbles drenched in blood and beer.

I wonder why I am here still, 

when peers of mine are falling ill.

Age comes on and failing health, 

regardless of our state of wealth.

I walk the long street, walking fast, 

every day as if my last.

Past the vapers, shoppers and cops, 

and the buildings which once were shops.

I'll walk this street, as long as I can, 

when I'm no longer able , I'll raise my hand,

'But I'll walk until then as I have for years, 

over cobbles and memories smelling of beer. 

( A poem about ageing, loosely based on 'The Long Street, by Laurence Ferlinghetti)