These creaking bones,

Whose support go

Unappreciated

All these years.

These spots fleck

My skin like dandelions.

My face requited

Their affections.

This knob on my foot

Offends me;

By days end,

Expresses its disdain.

Those unseen organs

Play their stanzas.

Lungs like bagpipes.

Heart, a kettle drum.

Ah, for the age of grace-

The grace of age.

Life’s stage,

Curtains.

Damn age.

(It’s not that bad, really.)