On Reaching Seventy Martin H. Levinson I want to be a super-ager like the sun, bright and badass in the morning, blazing hot through the day, kicking sand up at the moon that sedately stays in place while le soleil heads for the horizon to lift weights, do curls in a celestial gym where planets jog around their orbits, galaxies stretch and asteroids spot comets, under their frozen cores, as they shoot through space thinking they’re faster than old-man sol ’cause they got slim solar-system bodies and dust and gas ion tails that may look good to the casual observer but aren’t very well suited for warming up the atmosphere and keeping the Earth going, tasks Mister Bright Star shines in.

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