Old Whine
I was 86 two weeks ago
It's no wonder that I move slowly.
My brain is racing down a track,
Looking for lost bits that won't come back.
My spelling is getting worse,
Which upsets me and makes me feel terse
Terse and frustrated, old and grey
Few can understand the things I say.
I do not know myself,
I could be a dusty vase perched on a shelf.
A vase that once was admired,
Now out of fashion, no longer desired.
A relic of another age
Tottering on the last page
Of an 86-year-old book
That is nearing its end,
But are there other chapters?
For me and others to look at
Before I go around the bend
I have much to comprehend.
Copyright © Shirley Hawkins | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment