Stephen E Yocum Jul 2018
An older neighbor of mine
did recently confide;
“Reckon I’m gettin’ ready to die,
my mind ain’t working so smooth
anymore, open my skull and what
might ‘ya see, would resemble some
surreal Salvador Dali painted scene.
All melted watches and disjointed ****.
My legs are unreliable at best,
my back continually aches,
blasted headaches refuse to abate.
I shuffle along like some broke
down thing, balance sketchy at best.
My recall comes and goes like a
random weak spray from a garden hose.
Spurts, leaks running here and there,
No continuous steady stream going
anywhere, not unlike when I try to ***.
They took my drivers license,
said I was incapable today and
would be more so tomorrow.
I used to dream of things I’d do,
beautiful girls I’d like to *****.
Now any dreams I can recall
revolve around food and that’s
pretty much all.
I wake at 6 AM each day
my body racked with pain,
eat some mush and sit in my chair,
fall asleep and wake ’bout noon.
Repeat some food, return to my chair,
turn on the tube, 20 minutes in feeling
like the world is a hopeless **** mess.
Even todays music ain’t fit to hear.
Taking me yet another nap in my chair.
I used to care ’bout lots of things,
now I can’t remember why or where.
If these here are my golden years,
I’d rather be young, broke and *****
lovin’ my Cheerleader girlfriend Amy
in the back seat of my ’48 Chevy.
Now those were the Golden Years.”