Mourning the Loss of my Youth

I used to be able to outrun my puppy, not anymore, not anymore Moving with arthritis in both ankles is a drag; I am kind of a bore I am seventy-two, but some days I feel ninety-four, and I’m not kidding The devil will probably come by to see if I will do his bidding I am closer to death than life these days, but I remember the past When I was limber, cute, sexy, sassy, some might say a bit fast Those memories keep me going, I like to dream, so I am great at naps I am not playing racquetball or pickle ball, and I no longer run laps Many things I used to do daily I have given up on completely My house used to be tidy, nowadays it is barely a tiny bit neatly I would love to get back to the good life, when I had the energy of six But here I sit, in a recliner, out in the country, in a yard full of sticks My teeth are cracking, for I grind them and I don’t mean a little bit. At the drop of a Kleenex, I might scream or throw a tantrum fit My frustration is high, for I remember when life was gloriously grand. Now I sit here, pining for my old life, eyes traveling from TV set to land.