No Bones About It
My bones are old, so I’ve been told;
It’s osteoporosis.
Accepting that if I go splat
I’m done – that’s the prognosis.
So when it’s cold, I’m not so bold
To walk if streets are icy.
One little slip may crack my hip;
To chance it might be dicey.
And so today, I had to weigh
Conditions ‘fore my journey
Or I’d go whoosh, land on my tush
And end up on a gurney.
My normal route I was astute
Enough to see could trip me
So I took stock and ‘round the block
I walked and I was slip-free.
When I was young, I must have clung
To thoughts of never aging
But now, alas, I watch my ass
And every step I’m gauging.
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