I wrote this, obviously, when I was 73.
Years 74-81 haven’t seen much improvement.
AN ODE TO BEING SEVENTY-THREE
My legs are sore. I need a cane.
My body has gone quite insane.
My breasts were perky as a song.
My bra size now is 40-Long.
I cannot hear. I cannot see.
I have to pee. Oh, woe is me!
My body’s fat. My skin is thin.
I do not like the shape I’m in.
I cough–I cough until I choke.
I’m going out to have a smoke.
My bones are brittle, I fear my fate.
I’m liable to disintegrate.
My memory now seems to have gone.
Who is that standing on my lawn?
It’s my husband Bud–or is his name Paul?
I thought he died–I can’t recall.
The thermometer says it’s 63.
I don’t know why it lies to me.
I can’t stop sweating–watch me pour.
My body says it’s 104.
My joints creak and pop so bad
I’m like a steel drum from Trinidad.
Leg cramps woke me again last night.
Why is my skin so loose and my muscles tight?
My health is iffy. I may not thrive.
But life is good–and I’m still alive!
And yet I wonder more and more
What I’ll be like at seventy-four!
My youngest son Blake was 52 this year. I am 36. The best way to explain this anomaly is to tell you about something that I read in one of Kirk Douglas’ books. A “senior” movie actress was being interviewed. The reporter said, “Forgive me, Madame, but I have to ask. Your son (who was also a star) admits to being 56. You claim to be 63. How can this be?” Her answer (& mine): “He has his life—I have mine!”