The man in the garage is replacing my water heater.
The one on the roof’s replacing solar panels.
What goes next – a part of the house or some of me?
We’re both as old and dated as a horse and buggy.
Scientists say senior neurons die but dendrites expand.
Like Grandma Moses, maybe my great works are yet to be.
A graying US has as many people over 65 as under twenty
as baby boomers have a last hurrah. I can still dance a mean
rock’n roll though I get winded. Experts say we should exercise,
don’t sit so long. A lot has to do with genes. Dad maintained
a healthy lifestyle; he died too young. Smoking and coffee
sustained Mom who survived for eighteen more years.
In youth my hopes rose like balloons. Too many pricked
have created a cynic though I still rub Buddha’s belly
every chance I get. Gravity curses body, lacuna my mind.
Feathers and folderol can’t disguise wrinkles and spots.
Should my geriatric waltz ever become only sickness,
shuffleboard and bingo, let Danse Macabre commence.
