Though growing old is preferable
to falling by the way,
one’s frame and this society
raise levels of anxiety
with every passing day.
The knocks that healed and disappeared
persist these days and snipe,
that dodgy knee, the hip that aches,
a back that needs support, it takes
a stoic not to gripe.
With parents, uncles, all long gone,
now cousins drop as well.
Familiar faces from the screen
keep tumbling into death’s ravine;
there tolls a distant bell . . .
You notice that surviving friends
are growing frailer too,
the wrinkles and the dreaming stare,
that stooping walk, but have a care,
they see the same in you.
And how come ancient memories
are more real than today?
They’re nice and warm for wallowing
and preferable to swallowing
the lies of men of clay.
Those selfish politicians seem
as far from truth as Trump;
they seize the digital domain,
crush tender souls with cold disdain
– just stop the world, I'll jump.
And that’s the thing, it all adds up,
the aches, the loss, the news.
We’re less keen, now, to hang around,
more reconciled to cede the ground,
pass on these worn-down shoes.