Stretching My Luck Poem by Fred Odom

There I was sitting on bed's edge
following strenuous stretching mandated by
my 5th lumbar to avoid surgery. It will come to pass
anyway in time, I think.
I will tire of sweeping back the shore's tide of age.
my arms, tiring of attempting stretching legs 90 degrees
agreed and appeared aged and worn.
unconsciously, my hand reaches and opens a poetry book
stopping at page ninety and a poem begins reading me.

Trees in my yard
though bent and drooping with the weight of Spring leaves
age better. Diameters thicken. Height increases,
wind which blows through their tops
and scatters objects on the ground
provides a calming sound like waves at ocean's shore.
it is perhaps because trees and waves
do not concern themselves with aging and feeling worn,
who rides their surface,
who trims their limbs
or nests within.
in my years, the sun's warmth has been good to me
and like a double agent, undone me.
my streets once filled with brightness
are coal mine black, filled with terror at my crossroads,
have dangerous gapes in the sidewalk,
chuckholes in the pavement, smell of sulfur.
I'll hunker down as though it will matter
knowing it won't.

But my twice a day ritual of pain
may have magic in its bones
unlike my childhood's rabbit foot, and
unlike my prayers at eleven, at twenty-two
when health robbed me, stole my sister.
But when feeling least deserved
life is filled with love, beauty,
kindnesses and blessings.
I'll keep the rigorous stretching in place.
Who knows?

Never the less,
a canary would be a good companion, in case.