Aging Out


After seventy
years retirement’s
specter shadows my moves,
clouds my thoughts,
clings to wrinkled
skin like death’s plastic wrap
that pulls tighter
equal to pressure
exerted against it.
Equilibrium in effort
establishes status quo
survival in a transparent
jail, a translucent cocoon
that grows stronger,
thicker, with each layer.
It’s best
if I don’t squirm.