A Mysterious Encounter at Life’s Crossroads: Unveiling the Secrets of Roy Pullam’s Poem
They say age is just a number, but what if it’s more like a ledger—one constantly balancing debts of assumption and credits of experience? Ever notice how some folks talk as if hearing fades with years, or that growing older means our worth quietly evaporates, like an invisible ink only the young can’t see? Well, here’s something to chew on: what if age isn’t about transparency at all—but rather the minerals beneath the surface, the undeniable elements that mold us, rich and complex? I find myself fumbling around that very conundrum, trying to pin down what “being old” truly means in a world eager to skim past the deeper, quieter layers. It’s a poetic riddle wrapped in everyday encounters—one that challenges us to appreciate the unseen weight and texture of years lived fully, not just counted. Dive in, and maybe you’ll find the same stirring questions echoing back at you.
As eyes look beyond me
Even though
I do not feel transparent
They figuring my worth
A total overdraft
No more
Than the composite
Of the minerals
That define my being
People who talk loudly
Thinking that age
Had made me deaf
Or stupid
And I fumble
Trying to define
What it means
To be old
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