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Poem

I do not like this growing old; no, not one bit.
I much prefer how things were when I was 
Younger, say 40 or 50 at a pinch.
Back then, things worked and moved 
Without complaint, and I gave no thought
To joints, or glands, or whether another glass
Was sane.

Now things seem fragile, and easily break,
With intrusive pain that annoys and invites
A pill. Pills: those things that old people take,
In handfuls at a time, to manage this malfunction,
And that vague feeling of disrepair. 
I don’t take pills, except now I do and have a 
Fridge drawer full of this and that.

I wouldn’t mind except I’m trying hard and
Eat quite well and attend the gymn; with
Keen intent to stay trim and well muscled, 
Though a six-pack seems beyond my means.
And therein lies my downfall, into this 
Shuffling wreck; who limps and hobbles
Meniscus torn, legacy of ambitious weights.

I do not like this growing old; no, not one bit;
Though it does seem not so bad when the new 
40 is 60, and old is 80 plus and I’ve a few decades 
Yet to go. And when the good old Doc has prodded 
And poked at my knobbly knee, pronouncing things 
As “Not too bad, come back in three months”, 
I feel relieved and nowhere near as old!

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