The Measure of Life

    I now measure out my life in garbage cans.
   For coffee spoons don't stir my cup of tea.
    It's true  the truck arrives each Thursday morn.
   So  know to place cans to curb the night before.

   I grow old. I grow old.
   All  days the same, ending  with a dying fall.
   But, no, that is not what I meant to say at all.
   For on Wednesdays, after tea and winter's ices,
   I find the strength to face the crisis.

   The eaten peach alone suffices to employ
   The pair of ragged claws I need
   To scuttle down the driveway floor, where
   Twin garbage cans,that placed deftly as I'm able,
   Loom like patients etherized upon the table.

   Let us go then, you and I.