Changing a Lightbulb

The lightbulb blows; we sigh and groan.
I’m sure that we are not alone
In being bothered by the fact
That age has made us slow to act.

The ceiling fixture’s eight feet high
And vigor is in short supply.
My husband fears that he might fall;
His balance he trusts not at all.

My shoulder aches, so reaching’s tough.
It’s hard to turn the screws enough
And if the globe is not on tight,
We’ll step on smithereens all night.

We manage, though, ‘cause I refuse
To ask for help and so I choose
To wait until I’ve jumped the shark;
I may just do so in the dark.