The calendar tells me my age in years;
it is a poster advertising date.
A bit of rust now suddenly appears;
arthritic oxidation as of late.
My leather chair provides me comfort stay;
I close my eyes to saw a log or three.
A modicum of pain has gone away,
yet knees in achy throb say, Woe is me.
The philodendron in a turquoise vase;
the pace of life for plant in Hunter green.
Each day among the rats I run the race,
although at times my pace is not as keen.
The levelness extant approves the walk;
but climbing ladders urges knees to balk.
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