I look forty-seven, they say.
It’s a compliment, for sure,
but, overshadowed by being sixty
and in pain without a cure.

I walk around as if nothing’s wrong.
I dress like I’m thirty-two.
I fake it and make it until I can hide
at home and be held by you.

I look forty-seven, they tell me.
But that’s outside, and I’m feeling in.
I’m knowing my body is falling apart.
and I’ll face it tomorrow again.

I dreamed of learning to dance new steps.
I desired to ice skate as in my youth.
I dreamed of having a tall tree house
that I could climb and escape into.

I’ve thought about growing my hair very long
and putting it in a braid
and painting and writing and being eccentric
when I turn eighty eight.

Is chronic pain going to squash my dreams?
Will I ever find relief?
Or will I look young at a very old age
and be glad I have all my teeth?