Will I be renting at 45?
Will I still be waiting to get that goldfish that I’ve always dreamed of?
The sofa that I’d always wished to lie on?
The coat hanging rail I’d always eyed-up in Ikea?
Will I be renting at 50?
Will I be living with postgraduate students?
Will I be listening to classical,
Whilst they’re listening to dead punk?
Will I be watching repeat episodes of ‘Friends,’
Whilst they’re also watching repeat episodes of ‘Friends’?
Will I be renting at 55?
Some can rely on the bank of mum and dad
I wouldn’t be able to, they’d be dead
Will I be growing vegetables in an allotment?
Not as a hobby, I just can’t afford anything else
Will I be renting at 60?
Applying for jobs and competing with 21 years olds
With hair as golden as the morning sun and eyes as blue as the ocean
Will my hearing be going?
And will that be a blessing, because I’m living with someone in their late 40s
Who takes drugs, listens to House music and has loud sex next door?
Will I be renting when I’m 65?
Will I be glad there’s people around me in a shared house
In case my health deteriorates?
Will I be missing my grandchildren
I could never afford to have?
Will I be renting at 70?
And crying because my pension doesn’t even hit 20% of my rent?
Will I be cherishing all the memories
Of my shared houses I’ve had to leave
Because my landlords kept buying and selling?
Will I ever be able to afford my own funeral?
And will any of my ex-housemates bother to turn up?
A poem by Anna Frances, ©2021