Going Gently (Poetry)

(For Dylan Thomas)

I gave up raging pointlessly some time ago
and submitted to wrinkles,
the peppering of skin with age spots,
shrugged at the tendency of newsprint to blur,
buttons suddenly determined to be awkward,
stairs that steepen by the day.

The body’s sly in its betrayal
but all the signs are there —
line on line of evidence written
on every limb — scrawls admitting guilt
making the wheezing chest easier to bear,
the creak of joints almost a consolation.

Age is a get out clause, an excuse
for taking longer than necessary,
being vague and misunderstanding
what is otherwise obvious. The mind hangs
cobweb-frail in a corner, half expecting
to be flicked away at any moment.