The last two calls, I sense a further drift
away from logic, sense, and memory.
She needs a prompt, but isn’t acting miffed
when I supply the cue or clue. So we
converse about not much. It seems to me
she’s slipping but she doesn’t note the pale.
Expected at this age, I hope I’ll be
aware, though pained, when it’s my turn to fail.
The best vocabulary voiced to me,
from one I dined and chatted with for years,
was lost in ravages of memory,
when he was under 70. The ears
of my ex-husband, one who understood
and loved acoustics, playing any song
by ear, who worked all instruments with good
ability, now suffers hearing wrong.
Were these sad cases caused by overuse?
Did they exhaust their senses over time?
My brain’s my favorite part – is it abuse
to exercise it so on puzzles, rhyme,
and thinking?
Use or lose it, I’ve believed,
and earnestly I pray I’m not deceived.
Already aiming to move slower now,
sidestepping injury without a twist,
and trying taking longer speaking (how
to end a habit likely never missed?),
I’m also noting talking might consist
of questions placed in declaration’s stead.
The truth is, curiosity’s my gist,
and I should match my manner to my head.
I cannot find the gate. I’ve lots of time,
but get deflected over and again.
Too many passengers demanding prime
attention, crowded concourse, hurried men.
I seek Two Thirty Six, but first a yen
for candy stops my steps – I won’t conceal it.
But I can’t find a free cashier, and then
I pick a pack of sweetness and I steal it.
We’re complicated creatures, and we might
have made our species talk so we can lie.
Some good do bad. Some evil gets it right.
So many plots are driven with a sigh,
frustration mounting to a speechless height
and simply cause a character won’t try.
If you would search for someone you can trust,
then make her love of self-esteem your must.
There lives a sock monkey with me,
handmade once to aid charity.
I bought him myself
and he rules from my shelf.
He’s now paper-crowned regally.
They correlate the numbers, and assign
a risk of heart attack with mindless screen.
Cholesterol (read “LDL”) looks fine
to me, consistent with the numbers seen
in tests as far back as Two Thousand Nine.
And if we input better values, clean
and low, the threat remains, because their gauge
is weighted heavily by patient age.
At least for now, I’m done with feeling old.
I slipped two months ago, and tried to bow
to age advice as daily ache unrolled,
at least for now.
Improvement stalled, increasing creasing brow.
And signs of weakened eyes and ears foretold
diminished sense, but I had voiced a vow,
and rested on. Impatience took its hold
at last. I’m dancing and I’ll not allow
decrepit point of view. I’m gently bold,
at least for now.
A bit adult at 5, when I was 8
and he was born, he seemed so young to me,
that 6 and 60 years don’t decimate
a first impression that’s especially
enhanced by his abiding friendly trait,
that kind and playful personality.
So his collapse last week, though passing brief,
has knocked us both to geriatric grief.
I seldom value compliments as much
as others seem to do, or you advise.
Perhaps I’m skeptical, or not in touch
with graciousness, or maybe I would prize
cooperation more than words. My tries
at humble gratitude seem too reserved
to please. But I’m consumed with sweet surprise
when kids express the praise I’ve well-deserved.
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