Knock on Wood
At ninety-two my widowed sister
danced the hoochy-kootchy.
A minor stroke caused her to limp.
Undaunted, she stretched,
bent, rotated, lifted. It was then
she fell and broke her hip.
Our bother, eighty three,
composed a psalm—dedicated
to his two wives, present and ex,
both deceased at seventy seven.
Now brother, following a stroke,
can’t remember where he put his socks.
I’m eighty five and sold a painting
of myself, bare breasted,
ogled by my husband, eighty two,
featuring his voluptuous back.