Peggy Ann McCay Is Turning 50 Today
An homage to Shel Silverstein.
I can’t get out of bed today
said haggard Peggy Ann McCay.
My back is sore, my neck is tweaked,
my wing-shaped wonder pad just leaked.
I have this ringing in my ears —
it’s been like this for seven years.
My eyes are dry and burn and twitch,
my scalp is bloody — damn, that itch!
Floaters dance in both my eyes,
strange new moles are on my thighs.
My feet are throbbing, hands are numb,
I have a swollen, blistered gum.
My hair is coarse and falling out,
my mouth has formed a perma-pout.
Beneath my eyes are puffy bags,
my back is splashed with red skin tags.
I had another dizzy spell,
my face is hot and looks like hell.
My belly sags like scrambled eggs,
spider veins crawl up my legs.
My armpits reek of sour booze,
my phone is full of crushing news.
My knees are raw. I can’t stretch out.
We’re living through a ten-year drought.
My elbows squeak when they are bent,
my house looks like a circus tent.
My throat is cracked, my head is — what?
What? What’s that you say?
I’m only forty-nine today?
Oh, thank God, I think I’m fine!
Let’s go get a glass of wine.
