The Letter

Just a line to say I'm living, That I'm not among the dead
Though I'm getting more forgetful And something's slipping in my head;

I got used to arthritis, To my dentures I'm resigned.
I can manage my bifocals, But oh, how much I miss my mind.

For sometimes I cannot remember When I stand atop the stairs,
If I must go down for something Or if I've just come up from there.

And before the fridge, so often My mind is filled with nagging doubt.
Have I just put food away, or Have I come to take some out.

I called a friend not long ago, When they answered I just moaned.
I hung up quickly without speaking, For I'd forgotten who I'd phoned.

And when the darkness falls upon me I stand alone and scratch my head.
I don't know if I'm retiring, Or just getting out of bed?

Once I stood in my own bathroom, Wondering if I'd used the pot.
I flushed it just in case I had And sat down just in case I'd not.

So, now if it's my turn to write you. There's no need for getting sore
It may be that I think I've written And don't need to write no more.

Now I stand beside the mail box With a face so very red
Instead of mailing you the letter I have opened it instead.