My body wilts despite the good I did–
The Brussels sprouts and suchlike I took in.
Now bunioned bones bring anguish to my feet,
Yet old appendix scar still looks quite neat.
My hip holds out now that it has a pin
And gallstones gleam within their clear glass jar.
Son phones, “Hi Ma, just wondering where you are,
The weather’s cold don’t stay outside too long.”
They fret, I know my irritation’s wrong–
Unanswered phone calls set them in a spin.
Exciting moments now a dwindling few,
Forgetfulness exhausts the will to live.
I smirk sardonically, my mood is blue,
As addled brain now morphs, becomes a sieve.
Betty Taylor confesses to habitual scribbling. She is a founder member of her local writers’ group encouraging aspiring writers for 30-plus years. As her dotage looms she is aware that no six-figure publishing offer is coming her way, therefore a daily blog bears the brunt of her drivel. She edits her writers’ group website and messes about on her beloved laptop to fill her days.