By Roberta Curley
Growing older makes me hanker for an anesthetic.
At 6 a.m. I spy a chubby crease wend its way from my lower-eyelid to my upper lip.
In the past, those ‘sleep lines’ would have vanished by breakfast time.
Neither coaxing nor scrubbing erases the propagating interlopers.
These intrusive keepsakes operate like indelible markers.
Once imbedded in your body parts, they’re squatters by eminent domain.
People tell me I look good ‘for my age’—what does THAT mean?
My proboscis droops and grows wider with each passing year.
Long ago, my face wrinkled at the mention of rhinoplasty—today, I’m all ears.
I never imagined tucking my breasts into my waistband, either.
Cruelly, laughing or sneezing incites jitters.
No section of the human anatomy is immune to softening with age.
Folks beset by the curse of time typically long for a heating pad—or a dog.
One perk of maturity is freedom to nod off without fear of chastisement.
Napping (a longevity aid), is deemed an accrued entitlement, (like Social Security.)
Some covet sleep as a tranquil way to permanently ‘pop off.’
Every morning I pinch my cheeks to check whether I’m alive.
If they throb, I begin the creakingly tedious process of bed dismounting.
I’m a New York City retiree—my expertise lies in lallygagging and being cranky.
Receiving a paltry pension renders me cantankerous.
Aging crowns my cranium like a one-two punch from left field.
Politics is the highest form of trickery, but growing old waltzes in a close second.
Thrilled to be a four-decade-plus West Villager, Roberta Curley draws her often wry poetic inspirations from NYC based issues, infusing threads of love and nature with the fact that one can feel alone amidst throngs of people. Words and music serve as her revered muses.