And here is another poem, amazingly enough.
The machine of the body wears out.
Olive oil can only lubricate so much.
A shot of bourbon will jolt the brain
for a moment,
but it shrivels quickly.
An ice cream pack will ease the back,
Lentil soup will warm the joints.
Chicken soup is the young machine’s elixir.
It smooths over, but cannot repair.
The young machine soaks up
experience, love, sensuality, curiosity.
The middle-aged machine coordinates,
recreates, blossoms, ripens.
The aging machine rests between exertion,
patches broken skin with almond butter,
restores torn ligaments with carrot sticks,
soothes sore nerves with peppermint.
The aging machine wraps itself in cocoons
of mocha meringueto protect against the dark.