Becoming Abe Vigoda

The sky tonight is veiled

by horizon spanning clouds.

I feel as if I'm looking up

through a burial shroud.

I can't see any stars,

just a hazy smudge of moon.

October's leaves, like my hair,

are falling way too soon.

The landscape is as desolate

as the plains of North Dakota.

My aura has faded to gray,

and I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I mainly drink tea or coffee

when I need to slake my thirst.

Some say I should switch to decaf,

but I tell them I will die first.

Ice cream, salt, and butter, I'm told,

are unhealthy for my heart.

I would love a big bowl of chili,

but it would only make me fart.

I can't eat spicy tacos

or enjoy a can of  soda.

My churning stomach reminds me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I speak with what sounds

a lot like my grandfather's voice.

Laxatives, antacid, and Viagra

have become my drugs of choice.

I wish that time were an illusion

and that I could quit counting years.

The hair on my head is relocating

to a new home in my ears.

I hear birds outside and wonder

if they are singing my life's coda.

The old man in the mirror tells me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.  - Jeff Barnes