Just a line to say I'm living,
that I'm not among the dead;
though I'm getting more forgetful,
and mixed up in the head.

I got used to my arthritis,
to my dentures I'm resigned;
I can manage my bifocals,
but, God, I miss my mind.

For sometimes I can't remember,
when I stand at the foot of the stairs;
if I must go up for something,
or have I just come down from there?

And before the fridge so often,
my poor mind is filled with doubt;
have I just put food away,
or have I come to take some out?

And there's times when it is dark,
with my nightcap on my head;
I don't know if I'm retiring,
or just getting out of bed.

So if it's my turn to write you,
there's no need for getting sore;
I may think that I have written,
and don't want to be a bore.

So remember that I love you,
and wish that you were near;
now it's nearly mail time,
so I must say good-bye, dear.

Here I stand beside the mailbox,
with a face so very red;
instead of mailing you my letter,
I have opened it instead.