Shuffling Wreck Poem by Edward Clapham

Shuffling wreck, legacy of a life well spent;
Knees creaking, clicking articulations, a
Spine complaining, shoulder crunching.
Legs spindly toothpicks beneath a pregnant olive,
A-cups sagging. Lungs afire at the
Leaping up of stairs, gasping breaths.

A visit to the dungeon of torture, the gymn,
Where perceptions of self are confronted in
cruel mirrors, is penance for past sins…unredeemed
By virtuous exercise. Knee twisting racquets,
With pounding pavements adding compression
To shearing, pilgrimage to salvation is denied.

Red faced, setting pull-down weight to half that
Of the buff young woman who has gone before;
Forte pulse ostinato in ears, setting an impossible
Rhythm for reps, double figures a hopeful ambition.
The clock high on the wall has slowed to an idle
Saunter, refusing to sprint to an acceptable departure.

Ah Me! An evening cocktail awaits: no
Peaty single malt, or fragrant G&T,
But a brimming glass of tepid water,
And the difficult swallow of this pill
And that capsule, all designed to keep
The crumbling body together and flourishing.

But the Sun shines; a friend calls, dinner is agreed,
Igniting smouldering anticipation of delight that sends
Intimations of mortality to cower in a dusty corner
Of the mind.And the back straightens; vision clears,
Seeing self in happier light, vague twinges are ignored,
Sulking. Living is renewed, with currency yet to spend.