To My Old Age
Bob Bradshaw

​
Huffing uphill leaves
my legs heavy as grief,
the trees panting
as if at any moment
 
one will place its limbs
on its hips,
arms akimbo
like a training instructor
 
at the gym, his new
and elderly client
–as my ex always claimed–
a disappointment.
 
At home I thwack
the hi-hats in the den
every time I walk by,
the ringing vibrations
 
like my a-fib.
How did this happen--
decades lost, as if swept off
by a furious broom.
 
There are creams
that promise to erase
my wrinkles, hair implants
to recover the lost
 
ringlets of my youth.
Everywhere young women
pushing baby carriages
in the Japanese tea garden
  
look less like wives
in their mid 20s
and more like girls
who should be taking notes
 
in a high school
biology class.
It’s odd how koi
and the pink faces of oleander
 
are the subjects
I now take note of,
as if old age
is a class without grades,
 
and one I hope never
to drop out of.