Every Day It Matters Less That I'm Not Tall

The time will come when, passing girlsof seventeen, I won't stretch, hopingto meet them eye to eye. I won't buy

only shoes with heels, or puff skywardwhat's left of my hair. I won't scan fieldsof pro athletes for the smallest receiver,

shortest shortstop, slickest, quickestlittle guard with a deadly three-point eye.I won't wince when some TV commentator scoffs,

"He's really short—barely five-nine."I'll stop envying the young their great nutritionand medical miracles that came too late for me.

I won't care that my spine's collapsing,bones thinning, testosterone dwindling,only my ears and nose continuing to grow.

What relief to be retired from the game,no one expecting me to throw touchdowns,hit homers, palm a basketball,

or for that matter, write good poems,make good money, live in a good neighborhoodwith my good kids and sexually satisfied wife.

What will I care if, as I slide into the flames,the mortician thinks, "What a small coffin.What a light weight"?