Into That Bad Night: A Complaint Poem by Richard St. Clair

Seventy-three, the little things go wrong,
Then bigger ones: they plague this mortal coil
As years go by and make my red blood boil,
But still I've learned to, grudging, play along.
It's no assurance, chalking it up to age,
And even though these shoddy frames must fail,
Wracking me with pain, more to bewail,
Trite words of comfort burn me up with rage.
I go not quietly into that night
That waits for one and all, both good and bad:
The human condition, understated, is sad,
And so I sing its dirge, then turn and fight.
Although I've found a path that gives me peace,
I don't look forward to this life's release.