Too Damned Late

 

Thin and dry, scaly skin stretched

over brittle bone. Age spots dotting

the landscape of my existence. More

pits, pocks and wrinkles than an

eighty-year old elephant. Hair

conjested nostrils and ears. Creaking

aching joints from neck to toes.

Loss of memory, words and names,

the present day of the week conven-

iently escape me. I recount the years

and find it hard to believe I’m friggin’

seventy-three. George Reeves, James

Dean and Captain Kangaroo are dead.

Very few left with whom I can relate.

The Grand Canyon is no longer grand,

the Great Salt Lake no longer great. I

find the image of myself in the mirror

nauseatingly repulsive. I look like a scraggly

Gandalf the Wizard who has lost all his mys-

tical powers.

I live alone with my small dog, haven’t

changed my t-shirt in weeks, shall open

a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew for diner,

will watch Wolf Blitzer’s Situation Room

on CNN TV, and can’t figure out how to

text message on the new flip phone my

son brought me the other day.

I can still construct a run-on sentence

nicely. Old age has at least left me with

that consolation. For much else, it’s

too damned late. So, screw it, I say!

Something within me says, walk this

way. Hesitantly forward into the great

unknown, it is the only way I know.

               -30-

Chris Hanch 8-23-2020