I Do Not Like This Growing Old

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!