Words from Inside My Head

There’s plenty of time, I think, as if I were
a youngster of thirty or forty or fifty or sixty,
to do whatever’s on my wish list: a visit abroad,
work on my book of poems; take a vacation somewhere
I haven’t been. Then I stumble across a poem someone’s
written about caring for their dear mom, the fragility,
the frequent falling, the failing health. With a mention
of her age; only six years away from my own.
My gasping breath, my quickly palpitating heart – 
I’m snapped back to how little time
I may really have left as me. 
Now, yes, it’s true, age is only a number,
I’ll be fine as long as I don’t look too sharply
in the mirror. And yes, it may be that
I won’t fail or fall for another twenty years,
but it also may be that tomorrow
that poem could be written about me, so I guess it’s time
for me to get up off the couch
and go.