Transitioning into old age––
forgetting to stand up straight and not
to stoop; vanity wounded on a daily basis
by the image I see in the cracked mirror
and cannot deny is my own.
When did I become a cautious walker
pushing her carriage through
the supermarket, trying to take it all in
with failing eyesight and barely hearing?
I haven’t broken through to humor
the heal-all for all that challenges me.
But I’m expecting, waiting, hoping for it,
when I will begin living again, not focused
on a number, but on being alive with
what’s left in working order.