Kate thinks that in a few years
when she'll get a bit of a slouch,
she'll order around Kirsty, lying
down on her couch, 'Darling,
get some water, I'm thirsty,'
after all, she thinks, 'I'm five
years older than her, I can
always play that card.' Kate
should have thought better,
we do not grow old like this;
at thirty, twenties feel like bliss
but at sixty it seems contrived
to long to be fifty-five, they
are so much more the same.
You should've guessed it Kate,
with age, we drift nearer still,
a bit like love and hate, like
them we begin, tactless and
apart, like them we end up
too, playing each others' part.