Consenting or Not

Feb 13 2020

In the doctor's waiting room

in a battered plastic chair

thumbing a vintage magazine,

National Geographic

a tattered House Beautiful.

Where I notice how old everyone is,

heavy-set ladies

chatting amiably

ample pocketbooks clasped in their hands,

stooped men

eyes drifting shut

canes across their laps.

And see myself as young,

in mid-life

even adolescent.

We all see ourselves this way,

arrested

at a convenient age,

oblivious

to the slow incremental change

we should have seen clearly mirrored back,

looking in low light

glasses off

when we bother to look at all.

But time is relentless,

and there will come a day when we find ourselves

reluctantly joining this club

we never wanted any part of,

one that seems eager for our membership

and has enrolled us automatically

consenting or not.

They are not yet my peers

but close enough.

All these old people

populating this waiting room

waiting for new hips and titanium knees.

Who are wearing down and wearing out

but doggedly soldier on.

Who are sure

they will soon dance again

race up the stairs

turn back the clock.

Who will renounce their membership

just as soon as the surgery's done.

Who knew from the start

they never really belonged.