I am tending now toward broken,
not a good sign for antiques.
I’m full of bumps and spots and dots,
and some assorted leaks.
Joints are aching, locking, popping,
not unlike a dance.
Appropriate in ballrooms, yes,
but not putting on pants.
The head of hair I sported once
has long since gone away.
The close-trimmed beard of fifty years
has grown out wild and grey.
I pay less mind to my own scent,
which once was fresh and fragrant.
My clothing choices tend to lean toward
nursing home or vagrant.
I’m hoping for a few more years
to get used to this change.
This horse is long past time to stud,
and doesn’t have much range.
My needs are simple, music, books,
and, once a day, I’m fed.
I pet the cats. I play guitar.
And then I go to bed.
It’s not as bad as it may sound.
There’s cookies and ice cream.
And, even when you’re old as I,
you’re still allowed to dream.
