The Super Bowl party was fun until my aged fingers lost their grip on one of those heavy super-sized bottles of wine. Glass, plus ceramic tile floors, plus 1.5 liters of red liquid spreading down grout lines and under cabinets kept me in the kitchen for most of the game. The good thing about sopping up wine is that it doesn't take a lot of brain power. Maybe fumes from bleaching grout inspire creativity. Here's the result of that seed planted during the clean up.
I can't go gentle into that dark night,
Old eyes that burn and blur at close of day;
Rage, rage against the halos 'round the lights.
It's not just eyes, but hands that have grown slight;
Those lids won't spin, those caps contain no play.
No driving, no gripping, that seems to be my plight,
Then curse the teeth that break when e'er they bite!
Tilted back, drooling like a Bouvier,
I rage against the dentist's shining light.
Did I shrink, or did shelves ascend in height?
Step stool's needed for shopping put away,
Climb gentle, have a spotter who holds tight,
Or risk a broken hip on taking flight.
The eyes, the hands, and bladder disobey,
Rage, rage against the limits and take spite.
Before I make my exit down stage right,
Before I drink Ensure® and eat puree,
Before my God puts out the pilot light,
I'll get Crizal® and drive into that night.
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