My hinges hurt. It
must be told.
From head to toe,
they stop me cold.
I ran a race,
Might need a brace.
It can’t be that I’m
growing old.
Ouch! Ankles,
knees, and hips cry out.
If it didn’t take
too much, I’d pout.
My back, my hip –
I’ve lost my grip.
Still, battle scars
like this add clout.
I’m toast. I’m
tired. Overdone.
Like someone shot
me with a gun.
I’m fully cooked,
But I’ve been
hooked.
When can we do
another run?
c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Image:
Theme art – adapted from
public domain image
Still from Holiday, 1938
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