I used to be
Wild
running barefoot over gravel,
galloping ponies, and bending
over to pick up shiny trinkets
And racoon's teeth.
These days I can still hike
mountains and climb trees.
Impromptu dance parties, and
jogging supermarket hallways
in an urgent rush.
But, most days
My hips ache like they are made of
old stone walls, my knees swell
sideways, and dainty ankles crack
in flats as if they were still strapped
to six inch heels.
Most days it hurts too much for brisk,
for swift, for haste.
Most days it hurts too much to roll out
of sheets and covers and let my soles
hit the floor. Rise.
The Devil no longer quakes at the sound of my foot prints, but revels
at the uneven drag of my limps.
The zig zag sway of crumbling hips and crunching cartilage. A sexual swagger subdued by a body
Too tired for its own hinges.
Most days.