I Will Go Politely
I have clung to the earth’s surface for 80 odd years.
Congratulations, you are blessed, how lucky to be alive.
Meaningless number, vacuous words
run fluid through my brain.
To augured aches and pains
I sent no invitation.
they crashed the party.
Lest I stiffen like old leather
I practice yoga;
walk a half mile to my mailbox;
ride my bike, even after toppling to the pavement.
Sleep, once blessed, is punctuated
by bathroom bladder patrols.
I no longer lie in the arms of Morpheus;
he has found another lover.
Pills and doctors’ visits irritate my life
like sand on a beach blanket.
Mental power outages surge
through thoughts, memories.
Nature is my plastic surgeon:
pendulous breasts, cellulite dimpled thighs.
Tattoos insult my resculptured body:
wrinkles, brown spots, varicose veins.
The artifice of heart stents, implants,
forestall entropy, a shrouded word for death.
Grumblings enumerated, I am packing my suitcase with gratitude.
Alone, not lonely, I will go politely.
© 2021 Fay Loomis
Fay L. Loomis was a nemophilist (haunter of the woods) until her hikes in upstate New York were abruptly ended by a stroke three years ago. With an additional nudge from the pandemic, she now lives a particularly quiet life. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers, her poems and prose recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Closed Eye Open, Love Me, Love My Belly, Rat’s Ass Review, Ruminate Magazine, HerStry, and Sanctuary Magazine.