When We Get Old My Friend

when we get old my friend
when our mustaches and beards
and hairs are as white as snow
we meet on this part of the plain
beside the red palm trees
at the foot of this mountain

we sit on the soft grass
and i get my guitar and
we sing a matt monroe song

we shall serenade the stars
and the moon deep in the
cool night and we shall feel
the brushes of gentle air
on our skins and we shall
smell the scent of the night
flowers and the salty breeze.

i'll take the first voice and
you take the second voice.

let us not talk about Rosario
or Alicia, or Rosa or Maria,
none of them has learned
to live with us in any way.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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