It says I'm ninety-two

[tectak]

Tectak, as someone who finds most of your poems mysterious, I have to say I enjoyed the to the point, simple clarity involved with this poem.

I guess it must be true, I got a card. Says I'm ninety-two.
I'm not gonna say "What happened, how'd I get here?"
I know how I got here, but I'm not tellin'.
Some guys died before I got chance to make'em friends;
you know, old friends is what I mean. Old friends.
I'll tell you how I got here. I got old. Bit by bit.
Some people die while they get old. Not me.
I asked asked Billy once, about getting old, he was...
I forget exactly...but he was still young. He was older than me,
so I guess I listened to him. He's dead now but he said
he couldn't die young. Oh yes, now I remember. Sixty three.
I thought that was old but Billy said he felt about eighteen.
I guess that's how it feels when you're sixty...sixty-three, he was.
I was eighteen. Billy died growing old. Not me. I'm ninety-two
but I sure as hell don't feel like I felt when I was eighteen;
maybe thirty. Yea. I feel like I'm thirty. Thing is,
I'm slowing down. Socks...yea. Socks are difficult.
Got a lady comes in and helps me with my socks.
Don't know if she comes every day. If I ain't wearing socks
by supper, she didn't  call round. I'm sockless today
so she mustn't have called but sometimes I get my own on.
Socks, that is...then I get  cramps...and I'm slowing down. these last three lines drag on a bit too long for me. In the beginning the speaker jumps from thought to thought to thought... but then gets into a whole conversation about socks. The poem captures my attention quite well in the beginning, but I'm growing tired of socks... you also mention how he as memory problems and mental capacity issues... but yet he's got a lot of sock talk going on.
I know this...doesn't matter how slow you walk,
it's the damned road that's movin' on. You go to sleep
in the garden seat...when you wake up you're back indoors. these last two lines made me chuckle. I do think that there is an overuse of ellipses
I didn't plan on being ninety-two. Or maybe I did, Even if, instead of or maybe?
but it was a bad plan. You have to plan; listen, you have to plan.
One day, you might wake up in  the garden seat. Warm,
it'll be warm. Dark, maybe. Not like night, though.
Funny, it's never like night. I sleep good. In my sleep im not quite sure what you are trying to convey here or how it ties into the socks that most of the poem was dedicated too. I'm starting to feel like there might not be a payoff.
it's always daytime. I dream of Billy sometimes.
He told me once that he felt like he was eighteen.
Can't say, though, if I was dreaming or not. oh jeez, the poem should have definitely ended here.

If I really think about it I get tired, but I'm ninety-two...
tectak 2015

You are all obsessed by socks. Or you will be if you live to ninety-two
Best and thanks.
You made an old man very happy..He says thanks,too.
tectak