.
Ineffably fraught orifice:
is this fate or glitch?
By the time we’re fifty, why
do you heat up and itch?
Perhaps you're lonely, need a boost? –
depressed you're so avoided?
So mad we don't acknowledge you,
you make us hemorrhoided?
Do you foretell the imminence
of new somatic jolts?
Will body parts each, one by one,
stage similar revolts?
Ear and nose hair seem to want
to creep out and make war –
and aches beset and bother me
that weren't there before.
And we won’t even mention peeing,
backs – or breath – or knees:
Perhaps the body goes on strike –
and wants to up its fees.
Though I suspect no winning here –
someday they'll maybe rue
that slowly pushing us offstage
means they’ll be going too.
.
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