Eighty-one feels sorry for himself.
In constant pain, he often wonders why
Gifts of time are never made to last.
How bitter one might be! For pleasures past
Trade for little when the price is high
Years later, in the maelstrom of ill health.
One can to such despair find no reply,
Not being in such agony oneself,
Except within one's love to bind him fast.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon