For the ages

The jokes we tell about getting old
stopped being funny sometime last year
— the yoga exercise called “tying my shoes,”
the saddest thing about ear hair,
all the must-take-medicines
the teeny-tiny white ones meant
to help with my heart,
gel caps intended to correct even “benign” swelling
as this is a matter of some concern for certain body parts.
Wednesday’s there’s the once-a-week number
which must be important though I forget what it’s for.
I’ve actually one of those pill organizers
now, the little plastic coffins marked
— S — M — T — W — T — F — S —
Empty cups telling me each morning
what day it is not.