103

…What if.
You woke up today.
To find yourself 83 years old, and oblivious
To why. How
What if?

I woke up.
Got out of bed.
Stumbled to my concrete room’s single dusty mirror.
And examined myself.
I screamed.

My fingers hurt.
Complaining of chronic arthritis.
From the decades of obsessive banjo picking.
They are withered.
And veiny.

My wrists hurt.
The countless IV needles.
Mark the places I already knew too well.
The minute scars.
Life’s elixir.

My face hurt.
It is wrinkled unfathomably.
The knots in my veins bulge forward uncontrollably.
They are purple.
As death.

My bones hurt.
They are brittle, weak
As the quill of a hawk's lost feather
My joints grind
Painfully, audibly


My mind hurt.
Why am I eighty?
Was I not different but a moment ago?
Wake me o’.
Odd mare.

AM I FINALLY DEAD?

I wake up.

I wake up.
Press the red button.
Stare longingly at the room’s single dusty mirror.
And wait for.
My nurse.

Tears never come.
Can't Cry Can’t Move.
I yearn for the dream I had so
Elaborately lived in.
Mourn it.

She comes rushing.
Turns me on my side.
Blows a party popper and puts on a hat.
Because today I’m.
103.

O'
What I would Give
To be 83 again