put my leg in boxer shorts,

the wrong way,

pick up my wife’s toothbrush,
and use her toothpaste,
oblivious to both.

put on too many clothes when it’s hot,
too few, when it’s cold.

chivy as plastic bottles tumble
down the bus aisle,

see young folk ride their bikes
on the pavement,

or push into a queue.

I have underpants with holes
in the crutch through wear not design.

laugh at books and signs full
of epigrammatic phrases about

growing old, living with someone,
the habits of cats and dogs.

remember when I was younger
saying “If I ever get like that
shoot me.”