Joseph Karasek
my coughings
and her creepings about, her bent, labored walk
that slow shuffle from couch to toilet,
her patient word, a handy subterfuge for
getting on in the world.
Is it only patience then, that is real, the labored waiting
and so, is there no other room
that this is what we have and what we know and
somehow must be made sufficient.
Today asks me to walk
on the other side of her, the side unencumbered by a cane.
Waiting, distracted, I do not hear
the silvered bolt loosed from some bumper,
see its careful slide along her shoe.
In a moment she has already fallen.
It's nothing, nothing, she says as two men stop, help get her up.
Her purse lies open on the street.
Suddenly, I trust everyone.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Joseph Karasek.
This poem was previously published in
The Final Exchange,#10, 2001.