At some point, it feels like life has stopped clapping,

when people open doors for you,

ask you about your health, but not about your life,

when agents are slow to return calls,

and children start to worry about you,

and editors send you to voicemail,

and the reviewers and interviewers

are chasing after new and fresh voices,

young ones mostly, and no longer chase after you,

when the phone quiets,

when the ravages of Old Fartism

appear all around you, and the air is filled

with talk of pills and pharmacies and insurance

plans, and bad knees and weak hearts,

at our age,

we aren’t getting any younger (and who is?)

and young people today,

how lazy and worthless they are,

and the world used to be better

and simpler and safe,

and a friend says he wants to retire,

and finish out his life by cleaning out his barn to spare his kids the work.

I think of relevance, and what it means to be relevant

in my world, in my time,

It means accepting life with grace and wisdom and humor,

it means finding a place to speak my voice,

it means shedding struggle stories like a winter coat

in Orlando, it means keeping news of my pills to myself,

and giving birth to myself again and again, every day.

I know where I am, I am as  young as I wish to be,

and as old,

telling my stories,

taking my photos, finding my voice, standing in my truth

I can carry my own bags to the car, thank you,

I can open doors quite handily, I do not need senior discounts for coffee

and movies, they should go to the true needy, the young.

I can share what I have learned,

teach what I know.

My love makes itself known, day after day,

against another body, another beating heart,

and then, the sparkle in my eye begins to dance,

I hear the joyful noise,

of relevance.

I am clapping for me.