Turning to stone
The young have green sticks for bones,
skin like Fruit-of-the-Loom waist bands,
and toe-head hair piled high
in layers of chicken tails.
But when the growth hormone turns off,
we begin turning to stone.
Each birthday is a peek at Medusa’s head.
The green sticks harden to Roman statues,
the elastic fails to snap back,
and hair moves South to the eyebrows.
Now mortar-n-pestle knees
grind and creek
despite the efforts of Bengay, Icy Hot and
outdated corduroy pants.
Our pilled, thread bare skin
necessitates a back scratcher
when shoulders rotate like an owl
in a neck brace.
We creek and crack
clomping around in Herman Munster orthopedic shoes
hunting for lost glasses, dentures
and lists so we don’t forget to pick up milk.
Stone is our fate.
Hardening bones and arteries
while our hearts and minds soften.
We’re like artisan bread,
crusty on the outside
with a soft and airy crumb on the inside.
We may keep the stone at bay
with Yoga, Pilates and Tai Chi
but the rock always wins.
In the end,
our granite bones
are laid to rest
under a granite gravestone.