Anthropod
Old age brings along with its uglinesses the comfort that you will soon be out of it, —
which ought to a substantial relief to such discontented pendulums as we are.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
My feet: I would recognize them in a São Paolo stampede,
Once the baseis of body beautiful, sun-tanned and tweed,
Now failing, n’ailing with callouses, gout-torqued joints;
See diabetes’ iron-discolor, all attestational as graphology.
They summate age, time’s ravages, the body sprouting its
Quirks and crud as misadventures ’gainst welfare weary cells.
Like cars with deep dents n rust-rot, not by cosmetic tricks,
Can’t lotion away the damages, surgeon cum body-shop fix.
I supposed on them when I first took my stand as young scholar.
I relied on them to let me run all the way up to earn at top dollar.
And, they were poolside, when she scanned me up and
Down to say, “You have a great physique, baby boy. Hey!”
You can’t get new ones, as with giver-livers; kind kidney. &
They outlast love, rather indoors, too ugly for nude paramours.
They’ve been to jail; they’ve been to Pamplona, Spain; they’ve
Been to New York City in kick-ass August’s killer sheet-rain.
Huffing with vape, alive but for Rx’s, I’ll bus them to a pedicure.
Everywhere they’ve been seemed fairly fated, but arthritis walks
A vaguer horizon ~ half one’s family faded ~ security unsure.
Looking down on them, I doubt I can love myself giddy again.
MJM 8/17 SF