Changing a Lightbulb

The lightbulb blows; we sigh and groan. I’m sure that we are not alone In being bothered by the fact That age has made us slow to act. The ceiling fixture’s eight feet high And vigor is in short supply. My husband fears that he might fall; His balance he trusts not at all. My shoulder aches, so reaching’s tough. It’s hard to turn the screws enough And if the globe is not on tight, We’ll step on smithereens all night. We manage, though, ‘cause I refuse To ask for help and so I choose To wait until I’ve jumped the shark; I may just do so in the dark.