A poem about going to the gym at 75 and older. It's all about which gym. When you find a senior-friendly gym everything comes right.
On shelves and hooks it hangs and hovers/ always verging on too much/ and next year and every year/there will be more of such and such/ and more. More stuff.
"Old" is a word that daily grows more vague and more distasteful for the semi-old.
It’s the lot of our lot to figure it out nobody but us, the oldish, the unyoung, the new old, can work it out how to be the age we are when the age we are and the age we’re in are doubly strange. In the past a few individuals survived to a hundred years … Continue reading The rise of the new unyoung
“Middle age” became a thing when I was middle aged a snorty phrase as if that dazzling time of life is a nothing, not even a noun but a joining-word a tottery bridge between youth and the ghoulish land of old. By now I should be getting meals on wheels but something strange has happened … Continue reading Middle age