youth

a short poem

it has turned into a beautiful day

nothing left to do but frolic and play

growing old their bones surely will shatter

like the frisbee on concrete does clatter

nothing left but to tell the lonely tale

how their sore lips and throats will always wail

of years younger full of love, hope and, grace

the bed pan reminds them of their disgrace

and all they can do is turn their wrinkled face.