When does a city grow whiskers, wrinkles, and crinkles when it smiles?

To be old just passed us a century ago 

When carriages bumped on cobblestone roads

Though gather a million people, whose lives coalesce

Into the industrial boom of youth

Or middle-aged toil

And they'll work as hard as they play

In the rain

To keep the city lights on, and the city structures young. 

My wrinkles might not come

In the form of the miles my parents walked to overcome

Their hardships 

But weekly swims in the public pool

Or dry hands from dish detergent

Or when academic French is a distant memory

(Or perhaps one of my stronger ones, ironically)

May be signs that the city will rest someday

Despite the flooded water grates

Diverting rain away

From the weeds and flowers that grow each spring 

Unlike the city that'll crumble into fixtures, wrinkles and

Scattered ghosts of a million names. 

In French I tried to say "when I grow older" with "Quand je grandis" but that phrase is supposedly for little kids. "Quand je serai plus âgée" (être --> serai in future tense for 'I') is the correct phrase.
Thoughts on the poem? I didn't quite get to say what I wanted but the semblance is there I think.