Looking at a Rocking Chair

Walking uphill, out of breath,
I opened the door labeled
The Eighth Decade and stepped in
to rest. I thought I would stay
awhile and picked up a pin -
A Septuagenarian
its letters so boldly spelled.
Instructions said, "Put it on,"
which I obediently did.
I saw a history book
I don't remember writing . . .
but that author's name was mine.
I read line after line, some
sad, some disgusting, and some
delightful, all genuine.
Yes, I needed to admit
the story's mine, I wrote it.
I limped over to a chair,
focused my remodelled eyes,
and scratched the itch on the scar
where my prostrate gland had been.
The book was long and its plot
read slightly convoluted,
and soon I took a long nap;
I will make a book report
at another time. The book
hasn't been completed, anyway,
but, oh-oh, who'll read it then.