By Shem Onderi
Change is here, within me, around me—
I am no longer youthful.
Old age is no prize to claim,
my actions betray my years.
Spiced foods are forbidden,
the doctor wants to keep me breathing,
so I visit the clinic more often than I’d like.
Meals are selective, my chewing is slow.
My polished designer shoes gleam in the corner—
unworn, for I no longer go anywhere.
Suits hang untouched, the barber sees me rarely.
White hairs sparsely dot my head, countable,
like the days I have left.
Once, I raised my voice in the choir,
but now my hoarse tune falters.
I cannot stand long enough to sing,
so I sit and listen as others praise the heavens.
My teeth, now few, reject the sugarcane—
I take it as juice, in a glass.
My reading glasses rest nearby,
for my naked eyes are weary.
A walking stick, my third leg,
supports me yet weighs me down.
My face, once smooth, is now a map of wrinkles,
my back bends, my steps slow.
In my youth, I toiled endlessly,
chasing every coin with boundless energy.
Not anymore.
The government now remembers me,
offering a monthly token for the elderly.
I have seen it all, heard it all,
lived through love and hate, despair and hope.
Now, only old age remains.
Friends have passed—
some too soon, others in their prime.
A few, like me, endure.
The youth dismiss me;
I demand details, ask for receipts—
but they tell me it’s in the email.
How will I see what I cannot touch?
Even my wedding-ring finger weakens,
but love still lingers.
Yet my pension is withheld.
Some faceless thief enjoys my savings.
Records claim I am deceased.
Or perhaps, in this forgotten state,
I already am.