Another Sunrise in His Day
Will I walk again,
Tillie mumbled,
lost in the fog of
her knee operation.
The surgeon predicted
she'd toss her cane away
in two months.
Still in a fog, she asked
if she'd walk the way
she walked before,
with the same locomotion,
as her husband called it,
a walk he studied
through binoculars
behind lace curtains
from the upstairs window
sitting in his wheelchair
as she strolled through
the garden, picking a
bouquet, creating another
sunrise in his day.
A Grand Buffet
Maury's wife frets
about growing old
withering up
and sagging so
it's up to Maury
to let her know
every day she's
a grand buffet
that he can't wait
to see and sample.
Her appetizers are
enticing, entrees
perfectly prepared.
At his age though,
Maury has to pause.
He knows now
this will mean
a long nap later.
A Senior Citizen's First Email
Things are quiet here, a friend writes
in the first email of his long life:
Most mornings I drive to Gillson Park,
sit and read beside the Lake.
The waves are a symphony.
Books are better there. Sometimes
a redwing blackbird will attack,
protecting its nest. The weather's
cool and there's rain at night.
It's not summer in Chicago
as you and I remember it.
I have a cell phone now too
and I use it all the time.
The landline's just a holdover
from the good old days.
Speaking of holdovers,
we should get together
while we still can.
At our age, who knows
how long either of us has.
People our age drop dead
without too much ado.
Tell you what: Whoever gets sick first
will notify the other one who'll take
a plane and race death to see
who arrives at the bedside first.
If I'm talking to a priest, wait outside.
Forget the small stuff like amputations.
They have prosthetics now for everything
except for tallywhackers.
Who needs more kids anyway.
My wife will send you an email if I die.
Ask your wife to do the same for me.
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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