Indignities abound as one collapses toward a certain age.
"Collapse" would be the proper term, despite the ever-rising
Years, and I have fallen far and hard. My brain no longer runs
My heart. A metronome controls it now. One hip is made
Of shiny metal. Cancer fills my vessels with excessive, useless
Lymphocytes which crowd out cells which bring me air. I can't
Climb steep hills without pausing. Then, today, a galling stumble;
As I celebrated Easter with my sons, I had a beer. It showed
Up in a frosty stein, which I, pathetic, aged man, discovered
That, because my wrists are ruined, I could not raise to my
Mouth unless I used both of my hands.