There Are Still Rivers

My hair, up there, is parted lean,
and what is left, they tell me, gray;
but I guess I just don't give a damn--
never knew mirrors to measure men.
And I still drive and have the itch to go
see which mountain can top the other,
to see some places I ain't ever been
and, likely, will never go see again.
And there are still rivers I'd like to fish,
some unmarked aces left to play,
some ice cold beers to up and down
and some apologies to pass around.    

J.D. Heskin  

If you've any comments about this poem, J.D. Heskin would be pleased to hear from you.