It’s not the battle of bones or drooping skin,
or the way knees go on strike

attempting your neighbor’s stairs,
or even your dog racing ahead,

tail excitedly curled, her backward glance of:
Get on with it, that gets your goat. No,

it’s the cost of facial expressions, how the store clerk
backs up at the check-out and you’re not

even that old, his high-blown frown over
your red satin skirt, its show-off slit.

Oh, well, not much to be done
when the young believe they’ll never straddle

a cane. Little do they know
that the years are thoroughbreds
stomping at the gate and, just when the gun
resounds, the distant finish-line moves forward

at a frenetic pace. Tag, you’re it.


© by Dianna MacKinnon Henning.
Used with the author’s permission.