A panty liner, long and thin
guards my dignity if when
laughing, coughing, sneezing deems
my bladder weaker than it seems.
It’s on in every situation
adding to my irritation
which, it seems, will not abate.
Today, I’m turning 48.
Don’t send your pity; please don’t weep
because my fluids tend to seep.
If I encounter apprehension
there’s always bladder re-suspension.
For now, there’s gray hair and hot flashes,
peach fuzz beards and light moustaches,
night sweats, dry skin, sleepless nights
with no apparent end in sight.
We “older” women understand
that hormones deal a crappy hand,
and that’s what keeps us all in stitches.
You’re turn’s coming, younger bitches!
I’ve said my piece and had some fun.
My feeble diatribe is done.
I know there’s nothing I can do,
But in my heart…I’m 32.
Poem by NanaBread.
All rights reserved,
because I could be named
Poet Laureate after this.
Or not.
Special thanks to my
family and friends for
another spectacular
year. I couldn’t have
done it without you.
Much love to you all.
Peace out!
Inside NanaBread's Head 