What ails me.

My eyes, no trauma needed, show me stars
And scotomata, too, when migraines lurk.
My hands are oft festooned with scabs and scars,
In winter most of all. My knees don't work
As they once did: they creak and kvetch and wail.
The uppermost, reticulated cache
of buttcrack, where of yore resid my tail,
persistently complains, like diaper rash
Or prickly heat, four decades overdue.
My right big toe and index scream in pain
At random, for a day or maybe two,
Then just a quick pipe down. As to my brain:
It's been too quiet lately in my head.
I'm starting to suspect it wants me dead.