When I turn 70, I am embracing vices
like a newly-discovered, long-lost twin,
like an adolescent puppy love,
vices I avoided all my life out of fear,
abundant caution and good common sense.
I will smoke cigarettes like Bogart and Garbo—
seriously, mysteriously, sexily,
and casually. I will smoke cigars
and pipes. I will dare cancer to catch me.
I will dabble in recreational drugs,
will sample ecstasy, hallucinogens,
and, of course, marijuana. I will eat
the whole brownie, maybe two, and will sleep
the deep and blissful sleep of the stoned
and will laugh myself silly
at ordinary wonders of the world.
I will mix myself boozy drinks with names
like Moscow Mule or White Russian or Sex
on the Beach or Mai Tai. I will go nude
at nude beaches and stare unabashedly
at naked splendors there displayed. I will.
I will hire expensive companions
and have unwise, illicit, unsafe sex.
I will gamble. I will ride in helicopters
and bi-planes, on backs of motorcycles,
my arms around the supple, sinuous waists
of younger daredevils. I will be
a daredevil. I will eat like Anthony Bourdain.
When I turn 70, I will explore
all the vices, including the one
my parents thought the worst of all
the others, the biggest sin: indolence.
Cecil Morris
Cecil Morris has been nominated for a Pushcart in 2021, 2022, and 2023. He and his indulgent partner, the mother of their children, divide their year between the central valley of California and the Oregon coast. He has poems appearing or forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, English Journal, Hole in the Head Review; Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and other literary magazines.
