Aging.com

MY MECUROCHROME

Here where we suck on our teeth
for hours upon endless hours
supposedly, 
forsaking these hard-won blemishes
and I used to think:
smiling, those people failed
at smiling.  Now I know.
The worst gets worse,
temptation gives way
and fires do what they are made to do.
At four the world was inside
a bottle of St. Joseph's baby aspirin,
the monkey blood was real
and it worked by looking
at the red cross on the white box
while an old man whittled
to pass the time, so far courageous.
At twenty the blur began to whir
a little, I could still run
a while on empty, lub dub, tick tock
and it was Christmas Eve
all over again, mind boggling afterall.
Bandages at thirty were S-M-L,
the black lady at the fertility clinic
said, "learn how to knit"
and I knew she was right
about each one costing one tooth.
In my forties the protective layer
began to thin, hair felt just a bit
more ragged yet there was still
an endless supply of saliva and blood,
I heard people say: hot flash
and winter is early this year.
In 1972, I calculated my age
at the turn of the century
but now, just twenty more years
might be too much to handle,
earthquake roulette, a ferris wheel
stopped at the top is where I'll be.
That was the first time
death got a taste of me,
August 18th, two fifteen
and it wasn't raining.

As it wanders beside me
pretending to be
the shadow that he is,
over the years
playing peek-a-boo
a book of matches in one hand,
a stop clock in the other,

 sneaky old prig
I'm not your type.

Day turns into
day again
I work on another molar
until sleep overcomes me
no guard on duty,
my seventh dog gone home
thinking: I'll be like the Indians,
head off to the mountains
where they'll find me
up against that tree
and smiling,
his bone in one hand,
my last smoke in the other.

REVISION:

MY MECUROCHROME
with apologies to Paul Simon

Here where we suck on our teeth
for hours upon endless hours
supposedly,
forsaking these hard-won blemishes
and I used to think:
smiling, those people failed
at smiling. Now I know.
The worst gets worse,
temptation gives way
and fires do what they are made to do.
At four the world was inside
a bottle of St. Joseph's baby aspirin,
the monkey blood was real
and it worked by looking
at the red cross on the white box
while an old man whittled
to pass the time, so far courageous.
At twenty the blur began to whir
a little, I could still run
a while on empty, lub dub, tick tock
and it was Christmas Eve
all over again, mind boggling afterall.
The thirties began in the eighties,
they used to say: mature for your age,
Chubby Checker remix teen thirteen,
bonfire of the banalities more like it
so the black lady at the fertility clinic
said, "learn how to knit"
and I knew she was right
about each one costing one tooth,
lay low Aunt Bee, save your strength
for soda crackers and suppositories.
In my forties the protective layer
began to thin, hair felt just a bit
more ragged yet there was still
an endless supply of saliva and blood,
I heard the witches say: hot flash
and winter is early this year,
all so much abracadabra.

In 1972, I calculated my age
at the turn of the century
but now, just twenty more years
might be too much to handle,
earthquake roulette, a ferris wheel
stopped at the top is where I'll be.
That was the first time
death got a taste of me,
August 18th, two fifteen
and it wasn't raining, a 24 hour flu,
10 years old, baby blanket
Delta Dawn doing the dishes,
mom is calling in the cats.

II

As it wanders beside me
pretending to be
the shadow that he is,
over the years
Mr. you-know-who reaper,
plays peek-a-boo,
a book of matches in one hand,
a stop clock in the other,
he's been on his way
from Lascaux shouting
Art Deco! grand finale!
eeieeiooooooooh!

III

sneaky old prig
I'm not your type.
I'm under my breath now:

IV

Day turns into
the shake of a lamb's tail
or faster, gnat begets gnat,
I work on another molar
until sleep overcomes me
without a guard on duty,
my seventh dog dead
and dragged off,
thinking: I'll be like the Indians,
head off to the mountains
where they'll find me
up against that tree
and smiling,
a badass dog bone in one hand,
my last smoke in the other,