Growing old

I don’t want to wear my oldness
Like a long robe dragging behind me
But as an under-shirt with holes like
Stars flickering on a moonless night.
They are in old man’s thoughts , being
Covered by a thick polka dotted shirt .
The polka dots nearly hide all my holes
While they are filled with green envy
At others’ lack of holes under shirts.
But I manage with these green holes
By a precise overlap of the beauty dots
With the green holes ,their greenness
Always neatly sticking to my leather .
These polka dots make up my dignity.