Knocking at the door

As a Significant Birthday loomed, this happened.

One’s age, they say, is how one feels. Well, I felt good inside
Until a knocking at the door disturbed this rhyme.
A figure, darkly dressed, is standing patietly outside –
A hood? A scythe, perhaps? Old Father Time?

He can’t be at the right address. I’m young, my brain’s insisting;
Inside, I feel more like . . . er . . . thirty-two?
The dark shape’s looming now.  I move, but feel my limbs resisting.
The figure bends and pushes something through . . .

A message – with my name on! But there must have been an error . . .
I lift it from the mat with apprehension,
And ease it from its shroud. I tremble, petrified with terror . . .
The message reads: “You need to claim your pension”.

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