92 and pale, struggling on a wheelchair.       
Rusty room for shelter,                                    
Raisin lips for air,                                              
One torn sofa,                                                
For us wrinkled ones out there.                       
Wooden spoons and TV sets,                          
Damp walls and squeaky beds.                      
All tangible nonsense, but no cheeks to pull.  
No children to hug,                                      
Just magazines with coffee smudge.           
No memories to create, for the future is bleak.    
Only bones and skin to carry around, sleepy gazed and weak.  
But stuck in time, like a broken record,
The memories keep us awake,
To bring smiles where the wrinkles are,
They play over and over again.