My joints are stiff, my body aches
from A to B, an age it takes;
problems they are manifold
oh why must I be old?
To rise without my walking stick
and heave myself to perpendicular
is hard, and such a strain,
oh glory, here we go again:
there's something coming through the door
that crashes to the wooden floor;
tons of junk-mail in the hall,
oh well, I'm up, and didn't fall.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Im back and enjoying your down to earth portraits of aging.At 91 I could really connect with this.Sadly funny with all that realism