The First Day Of Being Old (Poetry)

Could this be the first sign? — because I sense today
a gap — some hestitation — a hiccup of delay
between the inclination ( a stray, unconscious thought)
and the resulting action — like time itself is caught
where an odd second stutters — falters — mission interrupted
wanders pathways wearing thin — their neural links corrupted.

The dither factor interferes — makes logic vague and hazy
and memory’s not what it was — frustration mimics crazy
life becomes a film — each frame scripted in slow motion
I drift about ad-libbing on a wide, imagined ocean
afraid I’ll sink — it’s swim or drown — the boat I dreamed won’t
                                                                        save me
the sky has peeled its scenery — both sun and moon betrayed me.

My skull is empty as a shell missing the sea’s swell
it echoes strangely with old thoughts too indistinct to tell.
Is this some creeping senile fog? — A preview of dementia
like some grim trailer showing clips from age’s next adventure?
The camera wobbles on frail legs — I focus — pull together
small horizons. Count my stars. And pray for kinder weather.