Old Age

 

 

Old Age is a sickness

And a very serious one too,

No cure has ever been found,

Nothing doctors can do.

 

Medication is for life

However long you may live

And the trouble that you get

Is the trouble you give.

 

“Old age is a brute!”

It’s not me that said it,

In my seventies I’m still young

With no pain as a habit.

 

I can still walk fast

And also run and ride,

A little jumping, I can still do

But won’t lift my bride.

 

While she isn’t heavy

She’s just too heavy for me

With my reality of seven decades

And a decreasing ability.

 

No aches and pains as yet

At least, not to cause concern,

Just a reminder when moving off

But I am beginning to learn.

 

However, I must admit

I’m in a bit of trouble,

Between the hours of ten and six

I’m more fragile than a bubble.

 

Old age says it’s hotter

And I must totally agree

When the feel like temperature

Is higher than the mercury.

 

Right now, it’s 81 degrees

But it feels like 88

And it’s twelve minutes past ten pm;

Kind of hot for this late.

 

 

Exacerbated by old age!

For the old it’s even hotter,

Thank God for that little breeze

I’m actually feeling better.

 

“Old age is a brute!”

You didn’t hear me say that,

I’m just repeating what I heard,

For me it’s not a fact.

 

Where was I again?

I just lost my thought,

Please take it easy, don’t rush me,

I’ll feel more distraught.

 

With us old people

It is largely about feeling,

A feeling to go most of the time

But where is too revealing.

 

Loss of hair and of teeth

Gravity pulls everything down,

A gummy laugh and watery eyes

Somewhat like a clown.

 

A hundred metre sprint

Walked in ten minutes flat,

I’d have opt to ride rather than walk

And surely eclipse that.

 

I have a dear old friend

And she is ninety-five,

She will tell you that if she had to,

She could still drive.

 

She couldn’t drive me

And that is for sure,

I would not even take that chance

If I couldn’t drive any more.

 

She wears no spectacles

Just fashionable shades,

She can read the finest print

Where younger eyes fail.

 

 

But she has aches

And she encounters pains

And has to rely most reluctantly

On her oft misplaced cane.

 

Wherever she leaves it

It’s not there when she needs it,

One gets the distinct impression

Her cane is more fit.

 

In twenty-four years-time

I will be ninety-five,

That will most definitely depend

On if I am alive.

 

Hopefully I will be aware

And some quality will be left

For to be a virtual vegetable

Is worse than death.

 

At the beginning I said

There was no cure for old age

But old age definitely disappears

At the death stage.

 

Old Age is a sickness

And a very serious one too,

There’s no cure other than death,

Mine is still due.

 

Stewart Russell© May 13, 2024