Poem: Walkers With Tennis Balls

Growing older

makes you accept



beyond your control.


Nursing homes,

microwave meals,

arthritic fingers,

feet soaked in salts,


with tennis balls.


It makes you adapt,


the lasting things,


the missing things.


Doctor visits,

rising co-pays,

bunions on both

feet, murmurs

of the heart,

on the john

way too long.


Growing older

humbles you,

makes you accept

your fate, head

and hands that shake.


Choose a date,

time and place,

pay the burial fee,

make peace with the


take a number

and wait

your turn.

3 thoughts on “Poem: Walkers With Tennis Balls

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