Measured like pocket money,
time is best saved up and stored,
or at least never spent all in one go.
Unless, of course, there is something
you have craved for ages, and the urge
to flash the cash is worth the risk.
At ninety-two Dad had eeked it out
and got off pretty lightly, given
cigars and gambling and their tendency
to nibble away at human resources.
Horses for courses, but the flat season
has given way to not such great odds.
At fifty-seven I had just a small stash
of cash in the attic. I should be sitting
pretty as the bus pass and pension
draw near but how many times
can you start and re-start the sand
as it trickles to a conical heap below?
We all make our withdrawals like
there is no tomorrow, or like the
rainy day is a myth, never to dampen
our blithe spirits or offend our
investment in forever. But sooner
or later the nasty stuff hits the fan.
Borrowed time is no time like the
present and being in the moment
is the universal currency. That will
do nicely says the man at the till
as you chip and pin your way to
the very edge of your allowance.