I’m opening my birthday cards, most of ’em from smart asses.
They got their points, my achin’ joints, I can’t see without glasses.
I can’t outrun the bus no more. No, and I hardly walk.
And people note my missing teeth whenever I do talk.
The doors to my brain’s filing cabinets often now get stuck.
I simply stare, lookin’ for words and then just say "No luck."
My wrinkles fight with wrinkles to find space upon my face.
My moves which onetime were so smooth are now devoid of grace.
I sometimes don’t remember things it’s said I might have said.
The hair grows from my ears and nose but not atop my head.
My body’s filling up with splotches, brown and white and red.
I read the obits every morning, make sure I’m not dead.
My words come out unfiltered, people say, "You can’t say that."
My strength is on vacation and I sleep more than my cat.
When I look in the mirror, I think, where’d that young guy go?
The parts are all lopsided, looking like a Picasso.
My thoughts oft stray to bygone days, back to ‘Remember When.’
If I was born a dog, by God, I’d just be turnin’ ten.