Lately I move more slowly lest
some part of me choose to protest.
When stepping down, I must not rankle
and cause to turn my iffy ankle.
Getting up’s so controversial,
that I stage a small rehearsal,
raising myself half way there
up into the waiting air,
then heaving myself all the way up
once I know I’m going to stay up.
Each part of me, when pulled from rest
issues warnings at its behest.
My backbone aches and both legs cramp.
My right foot hurts over the vamp.
I’ve carpal tunnel from too much typing,
a sore throat now (from all my griping,)
high blood pressure from worrying,
assorted bruises from hurrying.
What’s more, I think it’s crass of me
to reveal what the mass of me
complains of every time I move.
Somehow it simply doesn’t behoove
a person of a certain age
to moan, complain and gripe and rage
over every little ache and pain
that our younger comrades so disdain.
I’ll step more sprightly, with seeming ease
no matter what muscles I displease
in doing so. I will endeavor
to appear youthful for forever!
No matter that my critical mass
prefers that I sit on my ass.
I will not listen to hip joints that
need replacing or that slight fat
around my middle that I fear tends
to interfere with graceful bends.
Shortness of breath I’ll try to hide.
My irritation I’ll abide.
Mask all this pain and consternation
with a look you’ll see as constipation!
“The” word today is critical.