Sarcopenia

Feb 2 2019

In the faces of these two elderly men

I could see glimmers

of their younger selves.

But the shambling Irishman

with the meaty hands

and head like lumpy pound-cake

had slimmed down nicely;

his surprisingly clear skin

and the delicacy of his newly honed face

bringing to mind words like “distinguished”, and “silver fox”.

How age can compliment a man

as much as it's hard on a woman

in the eyes of the world.

While the smooth young man-about-town

who had squired celebrities

and worn his long wavy hair

with fashionable neglect

had turned gaunt and deeply creased,

his blemished skin

betraying time's ravages.

My own round face

is getting fatter with age,

prosperously bland

in its plump contentment.

And with the same ruddy plethora

that still too easily flushes,

whether with excitement

or embarrassment

or unbuckled gluttony.

This is my father's gift,

whom I've come to more and more resemble,

his visage full

until he neared the end.

Yet how limply clothes hang

on the shrunken bodies

of the very old;

their paper skin and wasted muscle

thin collapsing bone.

The perversity of age;

from the neck up, well-fed,

while the rest

is more Dickensian waif.

No need to elaborate on hair,

except to wonder

how it can disappear on top

while showing up alarmingly

in such odd and bewildering spots.

At some point

I will start tacking on years

to my chronological age.

No longer clinging to youth

but proud to have merely survived,

as if to brag

how well-preserved I am.

The refreshing lies

of the white-haired raconteur,

who has tired of envying the young

and revels in longevity.

So I have this to look forward to:

a fat-faced old man

who claims to be older.

Struggling

like my father before me

as time grows short,

going faster and faster

while I inexorably slow.

I recently watched a terrific HBO documentary on two legendary New York columnists, Peter Hamill and Jimmy Breslin. (https://www.hbo.com/content/hboweb/en/documentaries/breslin-and-hamill-deadline-artists/about.html)

It began with archival film, and then at one point cut to the two men in present time, chatting amiably together. Their older versions were at first so unrecognizable that I found myself confused as to just what these two elderly men were doing on camera. (I suppose I had presumed the film was encomium, and had imagined them dead. Although at the time of this writing and since the film was made, Breslin actually has passed away.) Scrutinizing more carefully, the persisting glimmer of their younger versions came clear. But what a reversal: the lumpy Breslin looking positively handsome, while the debonair Hamill was a wizened remnant of the formerly dashing young man.

It struck me how we all age in one of two ways: either fat-faced, or cadaverous. In the former, faces softening and remaining full even as muscle wasting (the “sarcopenia” of the title) robs the body of mass. I couldn't help but think of my own round ruddy face, wondering how I will look in 20 years. Will I turn out into a Breslin, or a Hamill? Will my fat face get fatter, or will I end up with that lean and hungry look?

This poem was the result.