Fifty
       

All morning I gather the parts of me.
A wedding ring lodges beneath a swollen knuckle.
At least I'm not in one of those old bodies
that chases young bodies, a bird that doesn't recognize
the window between himself and that sweet parakeet.
On the other hand my other hand writes
and remembers how to grip a tennis racquet.
My feet search for socks to cram themselves into
like songs into three radio-friendly minutes.
My mouth is an open door, my throat a foyer,
my belly a rec room. Bring more chairs, more chairs.
Earlier, my ear tried to alert me
to a new way to disappear but it was fooling itself—
I'm a noise that's not going anywhere.
At least my eyes have stayed in my head,
which, at least, has held onto some hair.
Once a year I give blood like a Christmas present
I hope to get back. Aches ride up and down
the elevator of my body, unsure what floor
to settle on. Read the label. Side effects
may include loss of speed, memory, and parents.
My students ogle their phones when they could watch
theater-style as I come apart like a cloud of smoke,
and who could blame them? More interesting to read
Lady Gaga's tweets or play Diamond Mine.
I tell them to savor each breath the way
an alcoholic savors the last shot in the bottle.
Class, one minute you're playing egg toss;
the next minute you're the egg.

Tweet
Copyright © 2021 Tom Hunley All rights reserved
from The Louisville Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission