The Oldest Here

Someone asked me what it's like,

being the oldest at the party.

Like it was funny. Like a strike

against me. I tried to be hearty,

said something clever about wisdom.

But later in the bathroom I stood

alone, looking at my reflection. Boredom

and gray at the temples. Good

god, I looked like someone's mother.

The kind of person who should know things.

The kind of person who is other

now. Marked. The bell rings

and it's time. My place had shifted.

I was the one who gave advice.

The one because of age. Sifted

through their questions like a price

I had to pay for getting old.

For becoming the mirror

where they see the future. Told

nothing. Getting clearer

that I'm useful in the wrong way.

Old enough to matter.

Not young enough to stay.

Old enough for their laughter.