Mother Moscovy Duck with babies in our backyard from next door
The Twenty-Fourth Poem September 11, 2022
These are my weapons against
falling: a many-colored cane,
and a black one, and when I’m
tired, or barely awake, a black
three-wheeler called a rollator,
but I call it my buggie. Sometimes
I walk on my own two feet and
hold my breath. The words don’t
wait until I finish my toast. On
Sunday morning they’re ready
to go so I let them. The toast
can wait, but the words are very
demanding, even impatient, and
too precious to ignore. So I yield
to their awesome power, their
no nonsense demands until they
slide to a stop. Then I finish
my toast.
No comments:
Post a Comment