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Driving at Night
Once upon a time,
my hair was brown and curly,
but now it’s straight and as white as
this drifting snow clogging the windshield.
I smooth down my hair with my fingers:
swollen knuckles, crooked joints.
I burn with feverish thoughts
yet cold blood shivers through my arteries.
Headlights blind me in my good eye.
The other one’s useless when I drive at night.
It’s a long time since I last saw,
let alone touched, my toes.
Putting on my socks or tying my shoelace
is a morning no-no.
Short of breath, of agility, with no ability
to climb up stairs: I stop to catch my breath,
pause, and shudder with despair.
What happened to my youth?
Where did my childhood go?
2 thoughts on “Driving at Night”
Oh, how I hate to relate to your poetry about aging, but I do! Well done my friend!
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Thanks, Tiffany: luckily the poem was written before I got the cataracts removed and went on a super-diet. Old age is not for cissies, as Bette Davis said.