As I near post-twilight light,
I find myself distancing
from family and friends,
which becomes easier
with each passing death,
since there are fewer
of either or remaining.
How great would it be
to end up ninety-three,
alone, with none to phone,
and far too weak to visit?
Not so hot, by God!
Tended to in assisted living
with lines plugged in
and fluids pouring out.
So what is there to joy about?
Muscles ache, bones break
and fewer teeth remain
to chew a rib-eye steak.
Instead, I drink milkshakes
making no matter be they
chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry;
I can't taste them anyway.
What's that, you say? Turn.
Let me see your speak. That way
I can make out what's being said.
If not, I might as well be dead.
I cannot hear a thing anyway, but
I learned lip-reading in the service.
Imagine having no taste, poor sight,
and everything heard is garbled.
The only way you can get about
is strapped in an electric wheelchair.
"Whoop-tee-do, I'm coming through,"
blaring a warning with a bicycle horn
to other old farts riding in tandem,
zoomin' about more blindly than bats
without any echolocation devices.
At least, it stirs the blood a 'lil while
which may be the only thing left moving.
Anxiously, I want to ask my housemates,
"if any of them knows the time
of the next scheduled ebb tide?"
I don't want to be late for my date
waiting for me on the other side.
But I don't ask, as none of them
hear any better than I. So why try?
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