Wake Up, Sleeper, And Smell The Roses
I am old today.
My back is an aching reminder
of my age.
The medication dizzies me,
and I have to spend a few minutes
to get my balance
in the early morning.
I look at the spots on my arms and legs
and the scars that remind me
of the time
my body served
as a learning ground
for new surgeons.
I blow my nose
again and again
until the head clears,
and the mind awakes.
My fingers travel over the keyboard,
looking for an excuse
to occupy my brain
and to distract from the joints
that ache with the back,
in unison.
They are all music
to my aging frame,
crying in the same rhythm.
Sometimes, though,
I cry silently,
as I remember
those who can’t feel pain,
or see the sky,
or ache in their joints,
or walk dizzily in the night,
or wake with the nightmares,
or complain in poetry.
They would be happily grateful
to be alive,
and awake,
and smelling the roses.
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