Old man coming
I can feel the old man coming.
Shuffling his way with a groan.
Each small movement an effort
For his stiff and aching bones.
The stairs are becoming a mountain,
Each shoelace a tricky chore.
A grunt as he sits and settles.
His strong back is no more.
I smell the old man coming.
A miasma of decay.
Peppermint and Ralgex
And slightly damp sweet hay.
His feet need sweetening also,
His breath it needs a spray.
He has the smell of December
Like a dank and smoky day.
I can hear the old man coming.
With his sneezes and sniffles and snorts.
He’s answering aloud his own questions
Well, he’s feeling out of sorts.
When standing up his knees creek,
When walking he often gasps.
His body, well it needs oiling,
But his hinges aren’t going to last.
I can see the old man coming.
More each day in the glass.
Long grey eyebrows, a blemish.
He’s becoming a thing of the past.
His brow these days has lines on its lines,
His face yellowed dark and hollowed eyes.
And under his rough summer suntan,
You can see see the old man disguise.
I can taste the old man coming.
In my blood and tears and spit.
And despite all this pretending,
There’s really no changing it.
I’ve lived more years than are coming.
Who knows how far through I am?
‘Make the best’ of it I mumble,
‘I really don’t give a damn.’