Aging isn’t like blooming.

Each time

I see a new mark on my face

I blame it on my age.

A wrinkle might give me character

But a crusty pimple

Or mole feels corrosive.

When my receding hairline is on the move,

I question if I have the kind of head

That would appreciate baldness

After I hit 65

The morning has become

A live wire act

Refreshed from a hopefully

A 7 hour sleep.

Energized to write 300 words.

Listening to the viral tracks on Spotify,

Introducing me to Florence and The Machine.

Surfing through the Los Angeles Times

For political tornadoes.

The only time I can drink coffee

Without an assault on my stomach.

Pumping myself with vitamins

Wellbutrin and Lexapro

To face the day.

Those four morning hours

Make me.

I feel young-pain free

And if I’ve created enough good vibes

I can survive the afternoon

and evening.

That out of balance exhaustion

Can fall off my cliff

Of frustration.  

But my uneventful

71st birthday

Laces me

With love