Sixty
I’m old, obsessed with old.
It’ll pass, but sixty’s almost here upon me,
Brand-new set of clothes to don me.
In my heart, my mind, my soul
I keep expanding, never landing.
Never standing still, rising
Even as the tissues wizen.
Even as each sense descends
Going crying, toward its ending.
Old gets older. Who feels well?
Heart in heaven, form in hell.
No more five before the digit,
Bones more rigid,
Tendons stiff or fidgety.
Hormone, ‘old reliable’
Has ceased to gel.
The spell of age divides the cell.
Sixty years have taken hold,
The smooth begun to fold,
Shine lose its gold:
Skin, shape, the easy movement;
Lust subsiding – one improvement;
Pain free days, nights fully slept
Now kept at bay. Old normal pep
No longer taken (as in granted);
One can waken half past three –
A pain, an ache and forced to pee,
Flee down the stairs like frightened hares
In nightened mares.
Yet, midst the fading flare
I want to see how sixties fare.
It’s possible there’s something there.
©Sixty 94.10.12
Birth, Death & In Between; Circling Round Woman;
Pure Nakedness; Time; Circling Round Wrinkles;
Circling Round Vanities;
Arlene Corwin
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