A poem about being a senior. |
I’m now what they call a “senior,” having reached the age of 65. I’m retired, a job a thing I used to have. Life is good. I’m happy to be alive. I have many pleasant memories of activities I once did in my past. I used to be active in all sorts of sports; tennis and running 10Ks were a blast. Those days are now gone due to arthritis crippling my hand and knee. I watch sports on TV and to participate I now play tennis and golf on the Wii. I used to drive all day and never tire. Nowadays on a road-trip I fall asleep; after a few hours my eyes keep closing. I tell you it’s like I’m counting sheep. I now watch movies at home since at theaters I fall asleep and snore, much to my wife’s chagrin. I’ve only seen parts of movies galore. It’s probably a good thing that I sleep so well in the car and on the couch; those eight hours nightly that I used to get has turned into four, I do vouch. I used to go to the barbershop to get my thick hair thinned. Today my bald head shines just fine. I used to pay $5 a haircut; at today’s prices I’m appalled. My mind used to be a fine-tuned machine, remembering things with ease. At my age I forget many things, from famous names to why I came to the store. Brain, engage! And then there is sex … or more accurately lack of it. To perform would require a pill. I used to be a real stud; now I’m just a dud. My sex drive must stay a thing I can’t fulfill. At my age society considers me spent. “Senior” is what they call me; it’s my label. I wonder where all my past abilities went. I’m a “used-to”, since I’m no longer able. Please check out my ten books: http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 |