Wearing Out


I lay on the couch, “does this hurt?” The Doc said,
As with a grip of steel he twisted my leg.
The pain coursing through me made me bellow,
“Of course if hurts, you impudent fellow.”

“You’ve got arthritis,” the Doctor clinically said,
“It’s on the screen in black and white, hips and leg.”
In the short time that it took him to tell me
I felt myself age quite considerably.

Now my hips are my internal metronome,
Each time they tick reminds me I’m old.
Each tock they make’s a clear reminder to me
That I’m not the young man I want to be.

 

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