Not in the book — written in his careful hand in August 2024, as the body that had done so much began to slow
I’ve reached the age of eighty-four,
To do the things I did before
With ease, now make me sore,
To walk or stretch, at eighty-four.
Many signs I can’t ignore
Now that I’m here at eighty-four.
A bit of milk is hard to pour
Without a spill, at eighty-four.
The aisles are longer in the store,
Some shelves are almost at the floor.
To bend, to reach, is quite a chore
When you are well past eighty-four.
I grab the knob on every door,
Uneven ground and stairs, abhor.
At gatherings I am just a bore,
“But he’s OK; he’s eighty-four.”
Over daily papers I do pore,
Some days I do one more encore.
I read the news, the views, and more,
You do these things, at eighty-four.
Youth and children I adore,
With ease across the ground they soar.
I remember all the days of yore,
They come to mind, at eighty-four.
I can’t wear clothes that once I wore,
I tire quickly, to the core.
But I am told I still can snore,
Some things don’t change at eighty-four!
