I’m suddenly too tired to be smart
in spite of all the coffee I’ve imbibed.
I feel too weak and vigorless to start
a project half as big as mine’s described.
Like when I drank too much, at 34,
and raced at home to get my contacts out
while still awake, I’ll home-improve before
I lose my drive and trade my plans for doubt.

I seek a bigger bed for better rest,
a soaking tub to warm and nurture me,
a kitchen that invites my cooking best,
appliances more fun to use and see:
a nest of safety, comfort and profound
organic sense, as long as I’m around.

This entry was posted in Aging, Home, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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