Age comes while I’m trying to figure out what to say.
I’ve put on ten years just this weekend.
My sister turns into my grandmother
while I’m asking her a question.
I become my Great Aunt Marie
turning down beds for those long dead.
Parts of my body play musical chairs.
My hair is a color God never meant it to be.
I wear shoes only an elephant could love,
forget where I put them and go out to buy more.
My answering machine makes more sense than I do,
I must draw pictures and point to them.
This rearrangement of knee caps and eye balls
makes objects appear close because I want them to be.
“Well, come on in,” I probably should say,
but by the time I got that far,
I’d forget who I was talking to.