Old Man Body Blues


 
When my belly was no longer slender
and my pants drooped without suspenders,
when I smacked my lips when I chewed
and slurped when I was spoonin’ stew,
when my snorin’ sounded like a kazoo,
then I was beckoned to moan 
the Old Man Body Blues.

What are other clues my youthful physicality 
has been replaced by a long-toothed reality?
Hesitatin’ at the bottom of a step ladder, 
panic when I need to empty my bladder.
Creaky knees, crinkly flesh, saggin’ sinews,
strugglin’ to bend over to tie my shoes.
Ears and nose requirin’ a daily tweezin’,
breakin’ wind when I have a fit of sneezin’.
’Fraid salt water taffy will tear out a crown,
happy to fast dance without fallin’ down.
Look cadaverous under a harsh bathroom light,
let others drive when day turns to night.
Remember when I could grow a crewcut,
I wear hearin’ aids but still go, “What?”
Posin’ for a photo, I tighten my chin,
youngsters stowin’ my bag in the overhead bin.
Dreadin’ a doctor probin’ my prostate,
walkin’ with a slow-movin’, lop-sided gait.

Those Old Man Body Blues can taunt you,
haunt you, tease you, tryin’ to undo you.
They can bellow anywhere
like when I was breathin’ breezy air
amblin’ on a path back to my cruise ship.
Suddenly I stopped, worried about my hip
descendin’ steep stairs without a railin’.
A lovely female sensed my fear of failin’,
offered me her arm, sayin’, “May I help you?”
I muted those troublin’ blues. “You sure?” I knew
pride cometh before the fall, but I took the risk,
stepped down sideways, without slippin’ a disk,
grinned widely at the winsome miss.

That same voyage, orderin’ a thin piece of meat,
a server asked if she could cut it for me to eat.
Hesitatin’ I said yes, watched her slice it into forkfuls.
Must’ve believed I was a cud-chompin’, flaccid bull.
She ladled gravy on the steak, handed me the plate.
Did she really think I need a chin-wipin’ helpmate?
I jested, “And now could you chew it for me?”
Her face froze, then she laughed uproariously.
Pushed my tines into those savory morsels, amused
by the Old Man Body Blues attempt to bruise me.

Christmas Eve, standin’ in a supermarket line,
traded jokes with a fortyish gal who was mighty fine.
After she carted her food away, the clerk told me
the gal bought my ice cream, so it was free.
Was she simply expressin’ holiday cheer
or was she flirtin’ with a guy older by thirty years?
Told the anecdote to buddies, hopin’ they’d say,
“You still have the body of your womanizin’ days.”
After I admitted I was wearin’ a dusty coat, unshaven,
they said at times I look like a hobo whose haven
is a cardboard box in the woods by a stream,
who dines with damselflies on meltin’ ice cream.

Days later, hung up a calendar, circlin’ my special date.
Classmates had died, but I’d be turnin’ seventy-eight
and balancin’ the sweet of vanilla and pumpkin pie
with the bitter of the Old Man Body Blues and its sighs.