Kinks and cracks, aches and pains,
pills and salves and walking canes,
old brown teeth from coffee stains—
they lie and say I’m what remains.
Aliens have stolen me and stuffed me
down inside this thing
which breaks and leaks and stiffens up.
I look as though I’m bitten up.
My ears plug up, they ring and buzz.
My eyes are tired, they sting because
no matter what, I still can’t see
where the hell they’ve hidden me.
This wretched sack and strange old face
has spots and knots from outer space.
I lost myself in this old bag
which puffs, drips, swells, and sags.
I doubt my brain has stayed the same.
Though no one tells me, it is lame,
it lags and drags, does not compute.
It stalls and sometimes it is mute.
I wonder if I’ll ever see
the person who I knew as me.
Aliens destroyed the key
and all familiar trace of me.
Penny Rice is a retired hairdresser living in West Seattle.
SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to firstname.lastname@example.org. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).
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