I had a stroke and I’m not me.
I’ve been disfigured horribly.
Little did you know that I

I’m from St. Louis and Budweiser.
I’m from the Seidel Coal and Coke Company and the Mississippi.
I’m from the old streets near Forest Park,

I’m going out for a stroll and a bite and won’t take myself with me.
Look after me while I’m gone, will you.
Outside the bleary windows is my sunny city.

Suddenly I’m ready to eat the world,
Starting with the food on my plate.
The waiter asks if everything’s all right.

When even getting a haircut seems too much,
And trimming your toenails and fingernails takes too much strength,
When more than you have is what’s required,

The time is coming when it won’t be maintenance.
The time is coming when it won’t be minimal.
I walk with my long-dead dog up a hill.

The ringing telephone sobs to be picked up and when I do 
It’s someone I love but don’t see anymore,
Calling from her car to ask 

I live a life of appetite and, yes, that’s right,
I live a life of privilege in New York,
Eating buttered toast in bed with cunty fingers on Sunday morning.

At seventy-seven I reached my prime.
But seventy-eight was also absolutely great.
And then came fab seventy-nine and continuing to climb.

The hundred shadows of the evergreens.
The refracted
strands of the ripples: