My physical self lets me down.
My body has aged less like fine wine, more like thick buttermilk.
My mental self lets me down.
My mind has aged less like ripe cheese, more like cheesecloth.
My intellectual self lets me down.
My brain synapses are slow and less frequent.

And yet
I’m delighted since lately
I drink less buttermilk and definitely more wine.
Memories can’t leach through cheesecloth and cheese can grow mold
I have time to filter then select what I wish to retain.

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