FORTY TWO SOON

My periods come when they damn well please,
No day of the month do I feel at ease.
I wait in vain for thirty six days
In a bloated, neurotic menopausal phase.
Little things eat at my very core,
I eat peanut butter and pasta and more.
The words that I once read close to my face,
are held at a distant discernable space.
Age spots that dot my sun touched hands,
will they run together and look like a tan?
My memory is slipping, that’s something I know.
But I’ll dance ‘cause the legs are the last to go.