Erosion of Self

Spend twenty years deciding who you are without knowing it.
Get a job, have kids, make jokes about who you’ll be when grown up.
Then one day, you think you’re seeing the doctor for nothing big
(your blood pressure’s too high or low, need to tweak your asthma drugs,
it’s “The Change of Life,” or heck, you’re just getting old, darn it),
and it starts. Confusion, forgetfulness, mood changes, and worse,
your hands shake sometimes (“guess I need some coffee!”), you’ve got a twitch.
Then you realize you don’t recognize yourself. “Damn pills,” you curse,
but that’s the good news, if you see it. You can change or stop pills,
but some folk find the twitch or tremor persists, their nerves cross-wired.
The guy on the bus this morning, unable to just be still,
drummed his foot on the floor, not looking, trying to stop, so tired,
but when he drew his foot underneath, it crept back out in front
and drummed again, his rhythm an unwilling dance: pause, movement.