When I'm alone, no ears to hear, no eyes to see,
The pain of days creeps back on me.
Sometimes my smile, my laughter, too, gets tucked away,
There's hope of relief of pain, short stay.
If asked, I say I'm fine, I'm good, I can, I will,
Then body bent, puffing uphill.
Misshapen and swelled, an unwelcome symphony
Of creaks and grinds, and one fake knee.
Attempts to keep up with needs, wants, obligations,
My own, other's expectations.
Seventy years soon mine, each line and each wrinkle,
Stayed awake, unlike Mr. Van Winkle.
I'll admit there are things I'd like to rearrange,
Been awake to see some change.
Seems the older I get, more say that I'm moody,
Some said, when young, 'twas a cutie.
Soon, the number "Seven" will have meaning for me,
Could mean my plan is working, see...
With Intent to live forever--so far, so good--,
Ahead could be that cutie and,
A blissful, carefree, second childhood!
