Making Sense of Getting Old

A minuscule trickle of blood,
a taste on the flat of my tongue,
metallic,
suggests something’s wrong.

The brightness of sun or strong light
brings a nimbus of tears
to my sight.
Add this to not seeing at night!

My olfactory sniffer sucks whiffs
like a blind electric vacuum
or silent sifter,
to see if there’s something to fear.

My shins point out daily how tender
my epithelial wrap
has become.
Getting old means skin getting thinner.

My muscles are growing weaker,
morning stiffness in both knees
and hips.
I walk fast lest the outlook get bleaker.

The words that I hear in a crowd
are an indecipherable
jumble.
TV is too soft or too loud.

Everything that is happening makes clear
that in age
the existential is there
to test if I’ve saved enough cheer

to outlast my life as a man,
give thanks for
this human adventure,
then, silently, fold up like a fan.