Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.

It's the light of the oncoming train.

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.