if time is relative then mine's my grandmother

so another year rolls round.
how many birthdays zoomed by
how many poems got lost on unbuilt subways
how many last quarters given to
that could be you on the street but you just have
to let it go. it's not your thing anymore
heads, tails. the flip is the point.
that and the ab crunches to build core.
yeah another winter approacheth
and the weight's aleady boarded the bus.
you say you got a call from your area code
i say let's just drop you off there when we go look
at the leaves, since that must be where you're meant to .
be.

i can only write as long as the back holds out.
perhaps that';s how i should build my core.
but it takes so much effort, you whine,
it takes time i could be using to smoke
this pot, or this cigarette or recover from the soul dead job
i have to get up and go to every morning.
with no end in site. i know it's a 25 percenter whine
considering the conditions and prospects available to  say
a worker at the chinese ipod factory
  but the outcomes the same, we'll both work till we die
albeit hers may be a bit sooner and has a higher probability
of being self inflicted and who can blame her or me
really, to whine about aging, my bones, back, liver, lack of energy oy vey
here comes my grandmother, the one they gave me
during all those commercial breaks, the old one, you know
from golden girls, fiesty as hell for five minutes
then it's nappy time till the early bird lunch.
and let me tell you
i don't like it.
the malaise, the droopy one sided plump mobile
the stretching of memory for algernon type losses
comprehensible, tantalizing, as real as dream state
which i'd quikly love to inhabit.
but no, live
says the body, live you must live you have to live
why, and i f it wants me to so badly
why doesn't it just lend me involunary impulses in
my dreams so i can get my cardio in before i have to get out of bed.

meh, i'm a sissy. but i can't decide which is scarier for
the last big caroom...being in a runaway cart or having control
of the hand brake...