Old age is creeping up on us, oy vey the unease; it tethers tight knots in our knees.
It gnarls our toes and many a bunion grows.
It swells our thighs to oversize;
It eats away our sacroiliac, spreading pain throughout the back.
Then it starts its upward trek and welds a crick upon the neck,
It turns the profile, once of grace, to wrinkles and grooves upon the face.
It plants some warts upon the nose and quivers our lips as saliva flows.
And the crown it does not spare; it thins and silvers our once blond hair.
It patches pauses to our thinking and trembles the cups as we’re drinking.
It even dishevels us when we’re dressed.
Still we like old age the best.
It purges pasts that haunt and strain from the nooks and crannies in the brain
It defines us as one beyond compare: lively, witty, even debonair.
For many an hour, we’ve survived our share of tempests on a wing and a prayer
And triumphed. We all can say. “Though we’re not perfect, we’re O.K. Very O.K.”
— Norman Chansky