This poem is a result of too much thinking about growing old. I’m almost 50 and some things just aren’t working as well as they used to. That’s what is addressed here.
~TR.
ME, MYSELF & AGE
Old age hasn’t sneaked up or creeped up or sauntered on up behind me;
It’s been sitting here beside me on this old comfy couch,
Reclining back, eating my peppy pizza, drinking my cerebral-cell-killing bevvy’s
And laughing at old sitcoms.
So I’ve passed the pretzels and fired up the ‘Q’,
And Age seems to be settling in for the long run, of fun and frolic —
Just so long as it’s on basic cable and we can see it from this sofa of safety.
Pants with elastic waists,
Doctor’s orders with a tofu-burger taste,
Me, myself and Age find our excessive, extreme, exacting excitement —
Every ten minutes on the tens or with the extreme weather warnings raising blood pressure to dangerous levels.
A healthy dose of the ultimate reality show mixed in with fantabulous fiction,
And divination for a nation who can’t scry the sky and sniff a wiff and say
“Looks like rain, smells like a storm. Good golly, Miss Molly, better wear a mac and carry a brolly.”
My joints are shot, my hair is almost ‘not’ and I prefer the smell of Tiger Balm
To the neighbour’s cloud of skunky pot.
I wear sunglasses at night
But the damned things are bifocals so I can see the subtitles just right.
~
Ciao for now,
Tim.
An excerpt from the upcoming The Cynglish Beat by Tim Reynolds, from Cometcatcher Press.
Words and Images are Copyright 2009 Tim Reynolds.
The Tao of Tim 
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