Neither old age nor decrepitude do I admit,

Though this aging body occasionally complains

Of this malady or that which sometimes smacks of it

Taking me to terms when I attempt tasks beyond my range.

I don’t know if it is a sign when, on a trip to the Mall,

On seeing a teen-age daughter with her mother,

I have the unmitigated gall to trip and fall

Leering expectantly at the older rather than the other.


So what if my maudlin mind on occasion forgets

To buy her a birthday or anniversary gift,

Leaves the dog outdoors long after his bladder is content

Or forgets to pick up a longtime friend who needs a lift.

So what if I am prone to sleeping late one day

While insomnia arises me at dawn on the next

Leaving me exhausted in the middle of the day

While younger men saunter about thumping on their chests.


Like the French, I will acknowledge only two discomforts,

Those two magnificent maladies of liver and prostate

Admitting that I can’t always rise to the moment some days

And suffering sadness I can’t have a little wine to compensate.

I’m not one to complain about mind or bladder

Though it appears at times I have lost control of both.

These are just small things at my age that don’t seem to matter

Except when I am in public and there’s no bathroom close.


I’m not one to complain concerning matters of the heart,

Though with age, I admit, while she was away not missing her,

As long as she leaves the dog and food while we are apart.

Nonetheless, I like on waking with bad breath kissing her.

They say it’s time to plan my death or at least my interring;

But it seems I always leave such contriving for tomorrow

I guess in hopes of postponement or at least of deferring

My friend’s final viewing of these remains with sorrow.



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