I no longer see
what’s left of me
in my shaving mirror.
Who can that be?
I recognize the guy
in a 10-year-old photo
on the cover of a poetry
book I once wrote.
Now I can’t remember
the day of the week
or the name of our President
as my tremulous hand can
no longer sign my name.
I forget how to spell words,
and have trouble remembering
names of friends as well as
family members.
A dark cloud hovers over
a setting sun of Lewy Bodies
who are busy destroying
what’s left of my brain.
It’s a losing game
nobody wants to play
called Parkinson’s syndrome.