Walker: A Love Poem

I take the rubber handgrips of my bright blue walker –
Named Thunderfoot by my comedian daughter-
And the two of us begin the slow shuffle –
Around the footstool-
Between the couch and chair (just enough room if I shove the coffee table out of the way)-
Over and around children’s scattered shoes –
Dog toys and throw rugs (which I swear will be the eventual death of me) –
Past the overflowing basket of clean laundry which I really should fold –
Around the dining room table (which way is shorter, has fewer chairs to negotiate around?) –
Step by step (it took me a fall to learn that two steps at a time was the only way to do it) –
(what kind of cripple falls using a walker?) –
(maybe some things we are not meant to be good at) –
Around the corner of the kitchen counter –
And finally into the kitchen –
Where I stop, exhausted, and ask, of no one –
What the hell I came in here for?

1/8/2010

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Author: Stephen

Stephen Harris is a writer, painter and a photographer who lives with his family in Maine.

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