Climbing the stairway to old
age, physical therapy
loosens the bone; there’s fiber
for the innards, and wine
to pink up the cheeks. Weeding
before coffee is a neighborly
chat, and jaunts in the ‘hood are
quick as a plowboy’s gait.
Technicians admire my sandals and
fire engine toes. The doctor
says for someone my age I am hardy
and adjusting well. Should I
blush or cry? Time leaves no shadow.
Before he leaves the talking
room, I square up my shoulders and
purr in a long‐ago voice that
despite a mythic age there dwells
within a jitterbug champ keening
pertly at the Big Band sound.
Photo of sundial courtesy Kevan Davis, flickr/kevandotorg (CC BY‐NC 2.0)