Walking back to work from the dentist
So sad about the nasty, expensive things I need done.
A new, and entirely unwelcome variety of sadness.
No romance, no broken heart, no pregnancy, no drama.
This is just living, and, dammit, this is just getting old.
The problems hurt as much, but they are grey
Are not very interesting --
Even as I am consumed by them, they bore me.
I imagine myself droning on about it at a party,
telling the youngsters how I grasped the chair's arms and almost screamed at the pain,
everyone around me plotting their escape.
I remember my parents going to the dentist for such things,
mentioned as an afterthought at a dinner they could barely chew,
or my father throwing his back out, my mother's early struggles with arthritis.
From my teendom, such things appeared remote, far away --
the dentist? really? Hmmm...
I kick a rock in front of me -- hard. There's no choice -- it's happening.
I will age gracelessly, but it won't kill me.