Not the cane,
nor the shuffling gait;
not forgetting the day,
and often the date;
not the glasses,
nor my dimming sight;
not those dreadful times
when memory takes flight:
these are not me.
Not the prostate,
too large for too long;
not forgetting the name
to my favourite song;
not missing the words
that my loved one says;
not the memories that crowd
from younger days:
these are not me.
Not the wistful smile
upon seeing my reflection;
nor the amount of time I spend
on deep introspection;
not the sensitivity
to every new ache and pain;
nor the knowledge that
I’d do it all again:
these are not me.
The real me is witty,
and alert, and bright;
that me can always find
the word that’s just right.
That me could converse,
and could dance all night long;
and knew the words
to every song:
I remember me well.
So I go on aging,
day after day,
and sometimes forget
what I’m trying to say;
but that’s really not me,
for deep down inside
another me enjoys life
with eyes open wide:
that’s who I am.
