Accompanying nearly 99
to co-absorb the words the doctor said,
I think we helped. We didn’t hear her whine,
and when we saw confusion take her head,
we acted as interpreters instead
of letting miscommunication stand.
Our aim is not more years until she’s dead,
but maybe better moments than she’s planned.
How frequently the transportation’s late,
the bus or train delayed, the traffic slow.
Though I’ve a phone app to prognosticate
the transit time, to where I aim to go,
the route is clogged. A bicycle won’t wait
most days, but even then streets may not flow.
Perambulation is the only way
of getting where I want on time today.
(It takes a while, some commuters said,
but how would they employ their time instead?)
6 weeks of rest and 2 new pairs of shoes
produced recuperative results for me.
I didn’t fall or carelessly abuse
the outer edge of my extremity,
but here’s a case where what I can accuse
me of is lacking the humility
to understand fragility in age,
esteem new gear, and calibrate my gauge.
In person is more suitable than phone.
We get along so well when face to face.
We both enjoy our habitats alone
and daily chat, but when I leave my place
and you do too, we meet and neither’s thrown
by attitude. It isn’t an embrace
that’s needed – each relaxes. We can feel
and recollect our mutual appeal.
Dilated eyes at noon, outside, in spring,
means walking’s difficult, and then the foot
(near-healed but still retarding everything)
contributed to make the going hard.
But it was worth the effort, for I cling
to optic health in age, and after all,
6000 steps were taken worshiping
my sturdy boots, for every stride was put
to earth in well and healthy balancing.
I understood that the variety
we purchased to replace the flooded vine
would purple-bloom, but every spring I see
more white racemes emerge beneath the spine
of limb about to leaf. Adjacently
the older plant survived and grew, to twine
the trellis flowerless, by experts doomed.
But 5 years later blooming has resumed.
I dwell beneath some trees, so I have shade
but also droppings from the limb and leaf.
Accustomed to the messes birds have made
and squirrels squirt, I don’t feel any grief,
but twinges of annoyance can invade
my peace. What’s sap or shit is now the chief
offense to mar the redwood deck I love.
Of late I think I’m bombed by crows above.
I rode a bus due west of my address.
Arriving early where I had to be,
I walked some blocks that used to be a mess
and took in scenes of nice urbanity.
The neighborhood once hosted busyness –
industrial a quarter century
ago, it languished into disrepair.
It’s looking like renewal’s prospered there.
I’m testing walking prudently today.
Instead of 60 minutes, I will bus
and promenade a quarter hour, say,
and I won’t quibble with my age, or cuss
about a change that may not go away.
I’ll choose supportive shoes with zero fuss.
In truth my status could be so much worse,
I’ll leave this brief reminder in my verse.
My memories of childhood are strong.
I recollect from 3 to 13 more
than family or friends, but I am wrong
at times about vignettes I pictured sure
from later years. It may have been the weed,
the start of multi-tasking, classes, peers,
but days conflate sometimes, or weeks recede,
or photos swap how memory appears.
Events occurred at night, when light was dim.
I had no car – I never was alone
for jaunts, but I can’t pick the her or him
with certainty – nobody had a phone,
so in some ways the replay’s shot with truth,
but lacking fact exactitude’s my youth.
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