I'm Slower On Stairs Poem by John W. McEwers

I turned the ripe old age
of older than I just was.
And it will happen again.

I noticed quite recently
a tick, or a crack,
a popping noise
in my knee joints
when I mount the first of several stairs
to my bedroom.

At first it feels like progress
like I'm coughing out the bad air
like I'm cracking my knuckles
before diving into a ham sandwich.

But then, quick as it says hello,
my age slaps me in the shin
with a yardstick.

My past years climb on my back,
hooting and chanting
the mantra of young men,
smacking the side mirrors
of minivans
on the way to the tavern.

I'm lugging boyhood up the whole flight,
straining to hoist all my poor planning
poor diet
poor hygiene
while they drunkenly stumble through my bones.

The poet in me shrieks,
scrambles to the pinnacle of my mind
like a kitten clings to a branch
surrounded below
by bellowing hounds.

It is of no use tonight.
I am shredded to pieces.
I am too old to climb.