Read Poems by
59 and Knocking Wood
Eight decades and a half old is my mom.
Nine years and half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but one good thing - I now CAN'T multiply!
And right behind my mom I'm following. . .
The white hairs keep appearing; it's with dread
I picture myself one day swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head!
Mom always was athletic till her knees
gave out. . . so walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, she has no grave disease.
I think she just too often scrubbed the floor!
Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
At least my knees might possibly stay good.
For the Humorous Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin