Contest poem, February, silver is figurative. Facing reality.
The Silver Batchelor
I've found the love of my golden years.
He's tall. He's bald. He has hair in his ears.
He cuts his own grass, and cuts my yard, too.
He gets around town pretty well for eighty two.
He groans when he sits, and groans when he stands.
He's easy to please and doesn't make demands.
His teeth are his own, they never go in a jar.
Ladies think he's a steal both near and far.
He helps clear the table and dries the dishes.
We gaze at the stars and make secret wishes.
Wrinkles and jowls don't take away from his charm.
I am contented with his hand on my arm.
He might be outdated and wrinkled and slow.
But when we're together, he makes my face glow.
Prompt: rhyming couplets or quatrains in iambic pentameter Subject-love