by LA Worthington
The face in the mirror’s beginning to droop,
I walk with a wobble and stand with a stoop;
Is this the same body that once was so fit?
I cannot believe I am living in it.
My vision is blurry, my hearing is dim,
I’ve lost all my vigor and most of my vim;
I assume all these changes are time’s souvenirs…
I wonder who said these are our “Golden Years”?