Predictable – it’s not a wholesome trend.
But I don’t think she’ll do a thing about it.
Declaring what her “type” is, she won’t bend
and, as for learning any time, I doubt it.
A smidge of self-aware could hone or mend,
but she’s so insult-powered she must shout it.
I used to like her presence, but it veers
to stale pontifications with her years.
It doesn’t bother me, that nights are split
by aging into sleeps of brevity.
It seems among all change appropriate.
It doesn’t bother me.
I won’t take melatonin, herbal tea,
or drugs my peers consider requisite.
I don’t use exercise as remedy.
But management of stress I will not quit,
and dog-taught age-acceptance sets me free.
My nights are cracked but naps are exquisite.
It doesn’t bother me.
I’m limbered now and ready for this phase.
I sit, knees out, feet meeting sole to sole.
I morning-took the mat eleven days –
the constancy my one and only goal –
and lately it is redefining whole.
Massaging arch to joints to toes, my feet
converse and diagnose, and this is sweet
activity, at slow deliberate pace,
enabling me to ambulate my street,
with tongue relaxed and welcome in my face.
Three common nouns, the doctor said aloud.
The patient tried to park them in his head.
They talked of other things – they here-and-now’d,
and drew a bit, and even backwards-read.
The doctor then requested he recite
the words provided at the session’s start.
With confidence, the patient gave two right,
but for the third his recall veered athwart.
Instead of single syllable, he three’d.
Instead of furniture he named an ape.
His certainty was absolute. Indeed,
that quality received the doctor’s gape.
Can “error confidence” be cured? I shrug.
I doubt it will respond to shrink or drug.
Among the birthday messages and calls
(appreciated, sure, but like a list
to monitor, who’d sooner dance in thralls
of solitude, by words and puzzles blissed),
the hour spent with one who wasn’t missed,
the paramour from 50 years ago,
then twice-refused, a different row to hoe,
surprised me with its mental nicety –
a dialogue between two minds that know
today, as then, compatibility.
As if the sabbath happened one day late,
last Tuesday was the yoga day of rest.
We breathed and stretched so slowly on Day 8,
twelve hundred seconds wasn’t any test
of stamina. But time to sense the state
of sinew, bone, and muscle was the best
expense of energy that morning hour.
I left home high on happiness and power.
Some time ago, I took to posting verse
each day. The rhyme and meter rang in me.
I didn’t need more sonnets to rehearse,
so I indulged in a variety
of forms. I gained familiarity
with 6- to 10-line stanzas, song and round,
and typed the type below, as if sub-crowned
by definition. Now the years are four,
all that practice hoeing varied ground
invites me not to label any more.
It’s going well, although there’s one small test
ahead, which will not discommode or smell.
The phrase that captures life this week the best?
It’s going well.
I love my work, my kids, the place I dwell.
I don’t sleep long at night, but I get rest.
There’s nothing pushing that I would repel.
I must pursue a bureaucratic quest,
but I think I’ll succeed without a spell.
For now my vigor’s fine. I’m feeling blessed.
It‘s going well.
Attending to the guidelines, quantities
and measurements, screening protocol,
for 40 minutes I gave histories
and answers. I posed questions after all,
about the aging symptoms – phlegm and sneeze
and ready bruising, breath and ethanol.
I left relieved, unchanged, with nothing wincing,
resolved to increase daily nasal rinsing.
She took her time committing to the work,
but now she’s gym-bound twice a week or more.
She learned the benefits – she’s not a jerk –
but won’t apply the lesson. I’d implore
about home yoga, but she’ll just ignore
at best; or worse, she’ll bristle and resent,
preferring all those other friends who meant
to coddle disability with care.
I think she’s well enough, but I’ll relent –
I know my words won’t move her anywhere.
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