Image for the poem Come, Come, We are Too Old to Panic

Come, Come, We are Too Old to Panic

The clankety-clank of the body
has become like a low rumble
of a running, untuned motor,
the metal-to-metal squeaking
is now a dull, negligible burr,
a hum we can choose to be deaf to.

It is no longer a dash to doctors
when there is blood or a baffling pinch,
quick prayers are paracetamol,
pluck and the bag of ice will suffice
we are too old to worry about health.

I am grateful that I can still choose
what to eat for breakfast (two boiled eggs),
that in the age I pop painkillers
like mints, these hands are commissioned still,
that I leave the house knowing the people
with whom I live are dry and under blankets,
like boa constrictors enjoying
a deliciously slow waking.
Written by Alviola
Author's Note
Image by 4924546 from Pixabay
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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