Oh, to be young,

To move with liquid grace.

To once again turn heads instead of stomachs.

No bling-bling here.

Ya get it?

Arthritis and pasties are the bass line,

fishnet support hose, the melody,

the refrain is being pushed around in a wheel chair.

Sutures at my temples give a smoothness and an eternally amazed expression.

Blue eyes are pulled to feline almonds as Botox irons crowās-feet and years


Brows plucked to barren wastelands wait for two brown rainbows to be drawn.

Ya get it?

Gettin old aināt fun.

Crabbin along, Iād trade a lot of wisdom

to be whisked across the dance floor.

to be impaled upon an erection,

to clasp a firm and rounded ass.

The last butt I clasped whimpered, ćBe gentle,

I am but a sagging gluteus maximus and my maximus is waning too.

Then it disappeared into some loose fitting jeans.

Siddartha asserted that aging entails three great losses:

loss of beauty, loss of memory, and loss of strength.

I am intimate with all these woes,

but where is the payoff?

Where is the status of wisdom, if I have no memory?

Where is the dignity of age, if Iām too weak to open a can of soup?

Inside I am still young

Itās my packaging thatās disintegrating.

Already I am only a shadow of what I was.