Just a line to say I’m living
that I’m not among the dead.
Though I’m getting more forgetful
and mixed up in the head.
I got used to my arthritis,
to my dentures, I’m resigned.
I can manage my bifocals,
but how I miss my mind.
For sometimes I can’t remember
when I stand at the foot of the stairs,
If I must go up for something
or have I just come down from there.
And before the fridge so often,
my poor mind is filled with doubt.
Have I just put food away, or
have I come to take some out?
And there’s time when it is dark
with my nightcap on my head,
I don’t know if I’m retiring, or
just getting out-of bed.
So, if its my turn to write to you,
there’s no need for getting sore.
I may think that I have written
and don’t want to be a bore.
So remember that I love you
and wish that you were near.
But now it’s nearly mail time,
so must say goodbye my dear.
There I stand beside the mail box
with a face so very red.
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I had opened it instead.