I'm entering into the phase of life when it's easy to do too much of something (too much standing/walking/eating/sleeping), which triggers a problem, which has a solution (less standing/not too much walking/moderate eating/moderate sleeping) that has to be delicately calibrated. The end of life is like the narrowing of a ridge. I am a Ridge Walker negotiating an increasingly thinning edge.
DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL
In August I disappear
so my birthday can't find me.
It will rub its nose in the scent of my years
and howl on my trail
but I've learned a few tricks.
I shoot out all the lights,
forcefeed the cat with cloves,
sneak garlic to the fanged canaries.
I eat all the cherries.
I erase my reflection in the mirror,
pound iron stakes into the dresser,
throw out the French lingerie.
And most of all I block my ears
against the birthday song, against all songs
that remind me that as I grow older, so do you.
You walk closer to the edge than I do.
I hadn't realized how steep the trail is,
how far up we've come.
The ledge narrows as I speak
and I hear the sound of drums.