I went off the beach path this morning and ran through a neighborhood of oceanfront McMansions. It was odd to see a brood of wild chickens prancing through their manicured yards. As I huffed and puffed along, it reminded me of something my mother-in-law once said to my wife: “You know, Mike is not a spring chicken any more.” This coming from a 97-year old woman, and I was certainly feeling her age as I wrote this poem:

Spring Chicken

Not a Spring Chicken
More like Sprung.
Cause I’m no longer,
Spry nor young.

The blossom,
Fell off my rose.
My light of youth,
No longer glows.

My sexy aura,
Has lost it’s shine.
This is not,
A very good sign.

The spring in my step,
Is getting rusty.
My perfume,
Smells a bit musty.

My tan has faded,
Teeth prefer soup.
Once broad shoulders,
Continue to stoop.

Voice is scratchy,
Hearing shot.
My physique,
Has gone to pot.

My pencil,
Has no lead.
Where’s my pulse?
Am I dead?

I’ve flown the coop,
Broken my beak.
I’m over the hill,
Well past my peak.

I’m no Spring Chicken,
Don’t rule the roost.
I can’t even get up,
Without a boost.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com