I’m Not Old, I’m Just Mature

At the chemist today, the clerk flashed a grin,
Knocked ten percent off before I’d walked in.
I asked him the reason for trimming the bill;
He whispered, “It’s seniors’ day,” with a wink and a thrill.

Off to McDonald’s for fries on the side,
Where another young worker took me for a ride.
He poured out a coffee, slid it over for free,
Saying, “Perks of maturity,” right back at me.

I’m not ancient, not creaky, not nearing the end,
Just seasoned, refined, and still able to bend.
Though print shrinks each morning and voices fade low,
And half the world mumbles wherever I go.

My teeth? They’re all mine, paid in full long ago.
My glasses help name the folks I should know.
Sure, I’ve slowed just a tad, but let’s keep it pure:
I’m hardly old fashioned, I’m simply mature.

The gold in my hair? Blame the sun for its tricks.
Or chlorine, that rascal, from too many dips.
The white showing through isn’t age, nor decay;
Call it “blond” and we’ll both have a much nicer day.

My car’s fully paid with no debts to confess,
Yet a teen hollers, “Hey, fossil, learn how to dress!”
No scratches, no dents, my driving is sure;
The insults bounce off me, I’m still just mature.

My friends keep on ageing at alarming speed,
More wrinkles than stories, more creaks than they need.
Mine aren’t wrinkles, they’re lines with allure.
I stand by that firmly, not old, only mature.

Even the new houses have steps built for flight,
So tall they steal breath in the dark of the night.
The streets tilt much steeper than they used to before,
Which must be why walking now feels like a chore.

Still, I’m up with the trends, staying lively and true,
And I swear I can still shake out a fine boogaloo.
I’m steady, I’m game, and on that you can be sure:
I’m not over the hill, I’m proudly mature.