Past a certain age
it is hellish convenient
to inconvenience oneself
with physical complaints
such as
I can’t lift a sheet
of plywood over my head
so how can I repair the ceiling?
I can’t write my name legibly
so how can I draw
a straight line and cut the plywood?
This phenomenon
more properly is known as
“(There’s a hole in the bucket)
dear Lisa” syndrome—
immortalized by Harry Belafonte
when he was a young stud
(and so was I)
able to do anything.
Makes taking arms
against a sea of projects
in an empty old nest
much less attractive
than singing silly songs
or just being a young stud
able to do anything.
