As you may have seen, this site is full of recipes for my younger self. Which does imply a certain age. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
For some reason, even though we know it’s inevitable, getting older catches us all by surprise. I’ve written quite a few poems about getting older. Most of them have nothing whatsoever to do with recipes or food — apologies if you’re on this page looking for that. Certainly, my younger self never thought twice about ageing, so the lesson here for my younger self is DANCE, long and often!
Here’s one of those poems, just for fun. Hope you enjoy.
My Cowboy Toes
Have (bone) spurs
that jingle and jangle
and refuse to bend,
when I walk arthritically along.
*
Swollen (with pride!)
these pioneers drive
the ageing process
like cattle,
across my forefoot, my midfoot,
singing sad cowboy songs
about rhinestones, prairies
and the way it used to be
in stilettoes.
*
Riding shotgun,
these Clint Eastwoods,
are high plains drifters
of my lower extremities,
taking hell from no one
least of all the ladies
at Hollywood Nails
who know not to mess with
my aching feet.
*
Too tough for a pedicure,
too roughshod for Italian heels,
a feminine sandal, in fact,
dagnabbit!
my cowboy toes are
boot-wearing dudes
who favour thongs and lassos,
medicinal whiskey,
and a good stirrup.
*
There’s no gain
without wrangling pain.
These cowboys of mine
are set for the good ride,
rollin’ their own podiatrists,
chewin’ up x-rays ‘n’ spittin’ ‘em,
totin’ bunions like guns,
and taking their ibuprofen beans
extra black.
*
© elsp 2024
If you’re interested, you can find some of my other poetry here.
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