On a News Story, Early February

A famous poet laments growing old,
speaks of marginalization
and, even
being forgotten (!)
If you can believe that.
Laments retreating abstract expression
of love
of kindness:
prose now, poetry no longer.
I wonder what old age will mean for me
already so, as per above defintion
and seemingly incapable of impact.
What would the famous poet say
to be surrounded by people
and noticed by none?
Words conscripted for a concept of "immortality,"
and held close to a useless little heart.
And if age is a function of familiarity,
I must be ancient already,
as no record exists of my own abortive attempts
at love
at kindness
in a sincerity that seems evident only to me.
Funny then,
that I will be considered
alternately,
foolish naive kid
and, then
anachronistic (foolish) old man
and nothing in between
as our generation abhors the ambiguity
that most things are neither one nor the other,
and clings so heartlessly to the assumption, that,
things outside the self are without
that love
or kindness.
So maybe when the famous poet writes
about a silly, naive youngster's lack of recognition,
it is mostly just blind pretention
versus
poignant profundity on old age rumination
resulting in a tolerably distant
existential dread.