Obsolescence Poem by Frank Avon

Bodies break down.
That's all there is to it.
Like autos,
they're engineered
to last only so long,
and not much longer,
no matter what.

The more repairmen
work their miracles,
the more miraculous
repairs are needed.
Eventually repairs
require further repairs;
then what's irreparable
occurs, the irreparable
recurs, and the whole body

reverts to actuarial
prognostication: you're
breathless, your feet swell,
you're weak, you're fatigued,
the eyes don't see so well,
the ears don't hear so well,
the nose doesn't quite smell,
nerve endings begin to twinkle,
the duodenum's inflamed,
sleeplessness gets blamed
on arthritic joint pains,
knees buckle, you're light-headed
without a swig of Jim Beam,
some foods you cannot digest,
some muscles start to protest,
you discover your gall bladder
(you didn't know you had one) ,
pleurisy, phlebitis,
diverticulitis,
certain nerves are pinched,
your jaws are clinched,
somethings happen too often
(say, at three o'clock in the morning)
somethings not at all
(drink prune juice, eat more fiber)
and as for sex? Okay, what's next?

You determine not to whine,
- and then you whine.
You determine to be cheerful,
- then immediately you're tearful.
You enjoy the gloss of memory:
that's a privilege of aging, until
the loss of memory sets you raging.
Some things can't be replaced,
some things can't be repaired,
some things you just won't embrace,
but some things can't be deterred.

You take more medicines
than you can name or count,
and the side effects of each medicine
lead you to need another round.

The repairmen have prepared themselves
to challenge the Engineer,
but the body's the innocent bystander
who can't just disappear.
Seventy - eighty - ninety....
the repairman's on a roll,
but the body begins to bounce
and groan and pitch a revolt,
and the Engineer calls on
the Highway Patrol -
sirens - whistles - flashing lights

and the body amid the noise
with the conflict at full blast

softly, silently, at last
sings of the soul's best joys:

Shall we gather at the river?
The beautiful, the beautiful river?

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand
and cast a wishful eye,
to Canaan's fair and happy land,
where my possessions lie.

There's a land that is fairer than day,
and by faith I can see it afar,
and the Father waits over the way,
to prepare us a dwelling place there.

I have found a place of constant rest,
near to the heart of God,
a place were pain cannot molest,
near to the heart of God.


Bodies break down;
they're made that way,
but the old body keeps on singing,
or at least humming its happy tunes,
for the body loves its music
and enjoys it late and soon.

The body's made that way.