Seems
every day it’s something new.
Look
here, how thin my skin is. Why,
You
can see the veins in my hands
plain
as day. Damned old age any-
way.
I awake each morning to more
spots,
more aches and pain. It’s a
good
thing I can’t see what’s going
on
inside of me. Can’t be good, spent
a
lot of years abusing my body—fatty
foods,
cigarettes and booze, you know.
Didn’t
give a rat’s ass at the time. No
wonder
my body is in rebellion now.
It
says to me, you may only be seventy
three,
but you deserve to look and feel
like
eighty. Why, just the other day some
young
punk had the nerve to call me, Sir.
Sir
is a title, I’ll remind you, reserved for
officers
and old men. I am not of rank in
the
military, and I do take offense at his
insulting
characterization of me. Boy, I’ll
tell
you, that to me was a slap in the face.
Woke
up this morning with this red blotch
on
my cheek. No, the kid didn’t actually
strike
me physically. I have this tendencty
of
speaking metaphorically. Had I been
ten-years
younger, though, I may have
punched
him square in the nose. Even
back
in the day when I was in my prime,
I
was always attracted to a good metaphor.
Huh,
Sir, indeed!
-30-
Chris
Hanch 1-25-2020
No comments:
Post a Comment