I feel my fingers are not mine no more

Age has mis-shapened them

and wrinkles form lines in between

The flowers look at me differently

and the air does cough and snore through my ports

Hair shoots from awkward places

Eyebrows become mustaches

I am the place mat of the Lord

A figure of speech left best to be ignored

White on top and grey in the temples where the auburn hair was born

Grows long and form haystacks that just scare the barber away

Knees that have lost their spring

while pain is the way to tell me of the rain

And my voice has learned all to well

How to shout and complain

My ears they struggle to hear the pin drop

and these weary glassed eyes have learned to use my hands to feel for things

In my foraging in the kitchen the nuts all look the same

The salt is sometimes pepper and spoons have fork-like appendages

The cat and the dog conspire to trip me often

obviously as I can see them smiling between my knees

The living room is no better

the hassock is a cruel roadblock built by the gods

to cripple the living

and the couch that you immerse yourself into will not release you without a fight 

The stairs to the basement a test for torment as the cement waits at the bottom to catch you unaware… a coma waiting to happen

 I’ll Lock the door and never go down there again!

The porch waits for the winter to wear its icy patches and the stairs puddle just right for freezing…

The shovel stands up with “heart attack” clearly written on the blade

Once yellow snow was the only thing of winter of which I was afraid

This  blood runs cold in December

after the summer birds have long gone away

My friends are below the ground

Their stones still talk to me today

Soon I’ll slip this skin suit off and let

my bones to rest

I hope it’s in winter when the snow

Can cover this life in the pure driven white

And this weary coat of worry will be left for others to wear.

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