A Poem After Sleeping on A Cot in the Poconos

I am thinking about going up to my age and asking it: “What have you learned?” But I’m not sure that it would answer me. 

Or, maybe, “Where are all the things you’ve taken from me - and hidden.  Things like the words I need for my sentences while trying to sound intelligent.  And also, the pills I had in my hand just a minute ago?  Or, my spryness, and my non-arthritic limbs?” 

But I think it would just turn its head and walk away disinterested; looking for something else to snatch and put up out of sight.

I might want to tell it that I’m appreciative of the many places I have been in life because it has afforded me the time. “Places from Half-Dome to Tinos, from Doctor’s Cove, to Skye”; but, I’m afraid it might not care.  And that would be too much.

I’ve considered asking it, “Is there a better way to sort my supplements and medicines so they don’t take up so much room?” Or, “Does it ever remember me picking up teeny tiny things from the floor when I was younger and actually had nimble fingers?” But, I am sure it would say, “Blah, blah, blah.”

It’s easy to disregard it - my age - when I’m sitting in a chair or watching TV.  But, just get up and move across the room (watch out for throw rugs which truly are a tripping hazard) and it screams with the voices of a thousand Sirens from the cavernous depths of Hades.

Ah, forget it.  I’m not sure it’s worth the trouble.  It’s too much work.  Besides, I need to keep moving and find the liniment oil.