Three Poems

Senior Life


There are no excuses.

The reality is I’m shorter by another

inch, age spots now sprinkled over

my arms and legs like chocolate chips,

gait slowed so people pass me on my

walks in the neighborhood and

glasses are no longer a fashion

statement. Memory is now a random

sieve, so I tell people to take notes if

they wish to remember something I

said. The curiosity I had is thankfully

still on the burner and the flame is

high. My mouth continues to operate

and perhaps even gained traction as

I’m now fully clothed in candor.


Getting on With It


There’s a quickening of pace,

a need to get things accomplished

as the days pass like a dealer shuffling

a deck of cards.

Sell hundreds of long-playing records.

Shred photos with no name nor memory.

Donate linens and silver and china from

the days when that was important.

Discard old letters, yes even the Peace

Corps acceptance and receipts from

items used and trashed.

Sort books (Why are you keeping Freud

when you haven’t liked him in over

30 years?) Instead …

Tell friends, family, colleagues how

extraordinarily satisfying it’s been to

have them in your life.


Plan visits to travel wish list:

New Orleans, Florida Keys, Provence.

Spend time laughing instead of sighing.

Eat what pleases, do what teases, enjoy

this time of reflection and generosity,

connection and legacy.


There is no going back.




I used my credit card in the supermarket

and the cashier said: "Don’t forget to take

it from the charger.”

I thanked her because one day a number

of months ago I did indeed leave it and

had to return the next day to pick it up.

She said “I always remind people like you.”

I paused, taken aback.

“You mean people with curly hair?” She

stared at me. “Short people?”

She was surprised. “No, I meant

old people, my grandmother’s age.

She’s forgetful.”

“And so,” (I couldn’t let this go.) “you assume

all women who look old, to you, are forgetful?”

She nodded.

“You know we’re all different?

Just like you and your friends behave differently at times?

And honestly, some days I’m forgetful and

some days not. This is a good day.”

She smiled. As did I.

It was the beginning of a conversation.

Jane Seskin, LCSW is a psychotherapist and writer. Her latest collection of poetry is “Older, Wiser, Shorter: An Emotional Road Trip to Membership in the Senior Class,” available on Amazon.