Working Order

We clutch a bit
now for sleep 
through the night,
choose sharper tipped
verbs, phrases,
questions of status
quo, but are handed
cliches older than 

we are. Blame it
on life change.
On menopause.
Hormones. Bone
loss. Arthritis.
Blame it on 
fatigue that 

(naturally) wraps
aging in a plaster
cast. Blame 
it on the body’s
unwillingness
to heal, a fresh

need for stricter
limitation, new
doctor’s orders,
unreasonable
accommodations,
less time sitting,
standing, but more

assistive devices,
larger print, stretching,
a cane, orthotics,  
meditation. Do 
not think any
of this has to
do with the strain

of being alive
in the same space
as you, thick arms
crossed across
your chest as 
you tell us, now,


we are no longer
worthy, are less than,
that we needn’t  
concern our silly
tongues with the
important verbiage
of youth. Of work.
Real work. Whelp.

You guessed wrong.
Immunity does 
not apply here,
and we have news 
for you. We have
listened intently 
to whispers on your

sidelines. In board
and locker rooms
you thought were
private. What you  
pass off as practical,
necessary. We know 
because we have 

sat in waiting rooms,
readers, observers, 
learners, teachers, 
patient be-allers and
mentors. Our work
speaks volumes over 

yours. Years more than
you have breathed
rhetoric and recycled
air. We can manage.
Rely on it. Our work  
has just begun. 

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright July 5, 2024, all rights reserved