Poem: Withering Slights | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
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Poem: Withering Slights 

I start to age 10 minutes out of bed
More fragile than in the olden days but not yet dead
My son-in-law hovers behind me when I walk
In case I stumble as we talk
My daughter gave me a three-pronged cane
She concealed it in the quiche Lorraine
A stranger volunteers his seat to me
L4 and L5 express relief
A happy respite from their commander in chief
Others hold a door open with a ‘there you go.’
Refer to me as Papa
Make me aware that “The door button is on the left.”
I go home bereft.

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