Some count sheep
to foster sleep—
I count the dead.
Old boyfriends, too,
their numbers at one time equal. 
Now the dead have pulled ahead.

Note marks of physical change— 
pipes narrow, skin thins, veins bulge 
lending a blueish tinge.
More coughing, dripping, drooling.

But don’t get me wrong—
it’s not all downhill.
Look for signs of wisdom, veneration:
a seat offered on a crowded conveyance, 
saccharine smiles of strangers.

A mailbox full of solicitations— 
hearing aids, Life-Lines if living alone, 
investments of life savings,
high-rise toilet seats, discounts 
on cremation.

And calls from family, friends
who still drive, talk, walk
the extra mile with you—
face-time with a great-granddaughter— 
“After eighty it’s all gravy,”
her great-great-grandfather would say.