When I'm asked,
"How're you doin?"
I'm inclined to respond, "It depends
on the time of day," instead, I say, "Just fine," since
inquirers don't really want to know.
Waking, I move,
reluctantly, wait to ease
joints frozen, let circulation stabilize
my posture, avoid a staggered step, but then
my parts remember how to do, "Just fine."
I shave carefully,
the skin is prone to bruise,
knees and elbows blemished with purple hearts
by bumps against all objects, I should wear
long sleeves and pants, but I'm a Floridian.
When morose I do
an inventory of what's left.
My white hair, once thick enough to break a comb
scarcely covers the pinkish scalp. My 20-20 eyes
divested of cataracts, still squint to read.
aids adorn my ears, teeth,
removable, my memory is faulty, heart erratic.
I'm still six feet but spine is curved, aching back.
Muscles are a memory, just skin and bones.
You wouldn't want
a catalogue of decrepitude.
I've no complaints, At 94 I seek no sympathy
Grateful I can travel, drive, golf passably,
write a verse, share life and love. "Just Fine."