poem by Nolo Segundo

The Walking Wounded


I see us everywhere anymore,

at the supermarket or the mall,

moving slowly, often cane-less

(old folks can be vain too) along

a sidewalk like lost zombies, and

of course every time I visit one

of the plethora of doctors I rely

upon to keep my cracking body

and creaking heart working….


Why did I not see old people

when I was young?

They must have been there,

in my world of swiftness and

sex, of sprawling on a beach or

dancing under the boardwalk

or driving fast enough to

challenge death itself—but

when I saw old people—and it

seemed rare back then—it was

like watching a scene from an

old black-and-white movie,

not quite real, even quaint—


I liked old people and I loved

my Nana and Pop-Pop, but only

now in my 8th decade do I know

how much they had to put up with

in living a long life, how time has

a tendency to whittle away your

strength and confidence and grace,

shrinking your bones, drying out

your joints, slowing your brain

and poking holes–oh, so many

holes in your memory….


I am not as fond of old people

now I am one—it is the young

I now see fondly—

but they can’t see me….



poem by Nolo Segundo

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Scroll to top