Now that I’m seventy
I wear my dead husband’s stained golf cap
with my pony tail through the back hole
and the visor pulled down
in a vain attempt to prevent the sun
darkening that spot on my nose
and too-big gardening gloves
to rake and weed, weed and sweep.
I’m bent and
my bra straps fall out of
my faded black sleeveless top
over crepey skin and biceps
built from all the reps for weak bones,
rounder that when I picked up
my toddlers all day long.
My grandkids have to walk. We go slow.
I switch the broom to the other side
so my back won't ache.
My cargo shorts droop
with the weight of shears, keys, phone
over a butt gone flat
and slide under a belly rounded up.
The heavy cotton makes a tan line I
would have despised fifty years ago,
along with the white ankles and feet
under my low-rise socks and worn-out Nikes
that collect — connect me to —
More every year.
While the button on this cap top
and I remember:
stand up tall.