Osteo blues

Old bones can’t carry my phone
My feet creak over stones I want.

My friends have knees that bend
In tune with their rhythm. I sit.

Bent over the table, un-synced.
Brain listening to myself compare

My first finger to my friend’s bent
Easily round a cup, a book, a phone.

Mine throbs at my side,pocketed
In shame: chipolata he named it.

It hurts, it’s morphing into some
Old thing, a witch’s wand, longer

Than the other one.

Ageing

You avoid the sun
Etching lines on
Your skin. You are
The artist, not the sun.