I see the tears welling up in his eyes
As he sets there, with a heavy sigh
These thoughts on his mind heavily weigh
Under his breath I could hear him say
"I'm getting so very forgetful"
"I'm looking so **** pitiful"

He turned 87 a week ago
His age is starting to show
He feels deaths grip closing in
His skin is paper thin
He's always cold even in the sweltering heat of summer
His hearing is almost gone, it's all just mummers
He talks of how his legs don't work so well any more
The act of getting up is such a chore

He has taken to cussing like a sailor
But reads the bible, getting ready to meet his creator
"Growing old in not for the weak or faint of heart
This growing old **** is hard"

©Pauline Morris