The Remains of the Years

I'll try to distance myself from the infectious depression of a rainy winter, and focus on some lighter poetry. To start out, here's a short and sweet look at the slow death that is old age (I know, that doesn't sound terribly light-hearted, but give it a chance).


The Remains of the Years

Legs by the bedside
and hair on a hook,
eyes carefully placed
on top of a book,
teeth in a water glass,
ears on the shelf;
what, in old age,
have I done with myself?