Another Thirty Years?

Tony Bennett just turned ninety.
What's his secret? Single-mindedness?
While I hop between two worlds--
The trussed-up elegance of self-containment
Versus the chaos of human society,
Rife with capering harlequins--
I assume he plunges headlong ahead
In undistracted, oblivious bliss,
Belting out pressed-in-vinyl standards.
Whereas I, o whereas I
Can't settle on a tune to trill:
I choke upon the opening notes.
There must be somewhere some sort of song
That epitomizes who I am,
Or else these volumes bearing witness
Don't amount to a single seesaw hum.
These poems are so many solo acts,
Hooting or strumming out of tempo,
Their hundreds of strains in disarray;
They overlap, they collide, they thrash.
A decade more of this? Gives me the shivers!
More after that? I'm chilled to the core.