Sir

 Sir

That’s how I’m addressed by youthful others,

For whom I resemble their fathers or grandfathers.

Still another dour omen of ageing,

Most notably to me of the waging

Of war between my vertebrae engaging

In a territorial dispute raging.

One spinal bone stubbornly tries remaining

Where the other tries relocating.

But beyond the woe of spinal crackers,

The meat and potatoes of chiropractors, 

Are dubious distinctions more obvious to the youths

Who call me “sir,” a title, methinks, for those long in the tooth.

“Sir” conjures up an old guy bald, paunchy, spacey, and shuffling,

Who cannot remember what he had for lunch or if nothing.

I’m not that sir guy as some might opine.

Sure I’ve lost a few locks, a receding hairline,

Gained a few pounds around the waistline,

And have had to staunch aches and pains with the occasional bottle of wine.

But I can still do a turn around town,

On my five mile walk over the Fox without falling in, and drowned.

And turning a phrase or two as well, a blogger somewhat renowned.

If I’m, then, to be a sir, I’ll not consider it a lame name,

But a blessing, an honor, a title of acclaim.

I’ll be known, henceforth, a heraldry aflame,  

As Sir Thomas of Singleton, a pearl of an earl, my claim to fame.