Frozen

JFK will always be
The way that we remember,
Never getting older than
That long-ago November.

In our minds we see him with
That shock of ginger hair;
There never was the chance
For any gray to nestle there.

He had no time to stoop or sag
Or sport those old-age spots.
When women see his picture,
Quite a few still get the hots.

When someone’s life is cut so short,
His face, to us, is frozen,
Most probably in just the way
He might himself have chosen.

So when we think of JFK,
His smiling image sticks.
Though fifty years have come and gone,
He’s still just forty-six.