On Growing Old

I am of the age when any day could be my last good day.

Aching joints, rebellious gut, fading eyesight,

arthritis, headaches, back pain sufficient to make a grown man cry.

Jacob Marley’s got nothing on me.

“Maladies du Jour” is a list carefully maintained.

I can’t help but notice that it isn’t getting any shorter.

Hope, the greased pig of human emotions, is

Forever dancing merrily just out of reach, as I

Dress with awkward slowness,

These old hands wondering why buttons have to be so small.

When it’s my time, will I know? 

Will I linger too long, a burden on my family?

Or will I disappear quietly in the night,

One last shuddering breath in my sleep and then

Gone, for my husband to find in the morning?

Somewhere across town, the ambulance crew is having lunch,

Taking a break between heart attacks and broken bones.

Noble young volunteers, they stand in the breach between

“just in time” and “rest in peace.”

Tonight, the ambulance will glide through my darkened town,

Lights flashing but sirens off,

Respectful of the citizens asleep in their beds.

Spin the wheel and hold your breath,

As the ambulance pulls up to the curb.