Not Bad for a Two-Hundred-Fifty Year Old Man

He felt his body begin to betray him,
as it were, a knuckle here, a knee there
and now not much hair as he holds his

hands together behind his head rubbing
back and forth from the hair-line to the
smoothness of his scalp with the sides

of his thumbs. He stares out the window
and wonders while his mind wanders.
He swallows hard, runs his tongue over

his crowns and sees a tiny bird off in the
distance, which he then realizes is but a
speck on his eye glasses, looks down

through his bifocals at the obituaries in
the paper and notes three people who
died at a younger age than he is now.

He ate too much white bread for Thanks-
giving and his stomach is bloated. As he
leans forward his stomach is squeezed

between his lap and his lungs. He straight-
ens up, draws a deep breath and sighs,
breathing the Yahweh prayer — In through

the nose Yah, out through the mouth Weh
— Yah in, Weh out, Yah, Weh, Yah, Weh,
Yahweh. Today, he will skip his waddle

formerly known as a jog for a nap. Not
bad for a two-hundred-fifty year old
man. Some days it just feels that way.

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