Poetic Relief

When younger and able, you’ll sit almost anywhere,

wooden benches, concrete walls, a bar stool, fences,

a street-side curb, a blanket in the park. Pull up a floor

and make yourself at home. When you’re nimble and

young, most anywhere is fine by you.

When you get old, though, and the knees and hips

give out, when you’ve turned into an aging, aching

grouch, you long to find a suitable place to sit your

sore ass in moderate comfort, preferably a pliable

cushioned spot which allows you to settle in, and

then permits you to rise again when you’re god-

damned good and ready.

You squirm a bit to find a perfect fit, one where

pain may not completely quit, but becomes a bit

more tolerable. And, that’s it, right there, a place

you and your discomfort can bear, for the time

being anyway.

Ah but when you reach a certain level of disrepair,

temporary relief is all you can hope for. Even the

comfort of the moment is bound to fade away.

And those persistent twinges of pain tend to inevitably

reappear.

It is those precious moments of relief you seek in the

painful stages of old age. One wrong move and son of

a bitch...Pain! Shift the ass a cautious bit to the left, then

a skosh to the right. Then aah, relief, albeit brief, sheer

poetic relief. And that fool Kilmer thought he should

never see a poem lovely as a tree. From where I sit

at the moment, that’s not how I see it.

                                   -30-

Chris Hanch 6-22-2020