The prostate goes.
The plumbing breaks.
The penis drips.
It isn’t pretty.
Sagging boobs are the least of it.
Being young sucks but for other reasons.
The balding head started balding years ago.
I was prepared for it.
But not for this.
No one told me the knees would go.
Everything falls out and what doesn’t
Doesn’t work well.
When your body goes, you’re through.
People say today, “I’m done,” but they’re not done for.
If they were, they wouldn’t say so.
Love is over: you’ll never pat an ass again.
You want to touch and be touched in turn,
But let’s face it: you’re old and stinky.
You used to count on that chance to get closer.
What’s missed is not the fornication but the flirting.
I for one see no reason to get together,
No point at all to communication.
In fact, if they’re not helping with the tax returns,
What’s the value of all this interaction?
Not even for a ballgame; better just flip on the TV.
Bodily secretions, special strains of sweat,
Rare sovereign odors once confined to one’s nether regions.
Little spills don’t add up to much, yeah, sure. But the
Throat clearing, sneezing, and nose dripping are constant.
Death is so close I can taste it.
The final feet, the final door:
One works one’s way towards the finish.
Can one find a sign of hope, or a bit of encouragement?
The only sign I have is one tiny hair on my nose.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll find two.