Nothing's working out;
nothing's going right;
I can't do anything well enough
no matter how I try.
I know I'm through the direst time,
the darkening months, the shortest days
but I'm so far beyond my prime
the future still dismays.
My summer was the challenge of improving;
autumn even the triumph of achieving;
but now my efforts only bring
the satisfaction of enduring.
My diary lists convivial
events I can look forward to
but they all turn out disappointing
or else next day seem trivial.
Everywhere is full of couples -
Romeo/Juliet, Darby/Joan -
or, in between, Happy Families
while I'm now on my own.
I hate this life without my spouse.
Despite my busy days I dread
coming back to an empty house
with a cold and narrow bed.
My teeth decay; my joints give way;
it's no fun being old.
It's obvious what time will bring -
this winter won't warm to spring.
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