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The Walker
The old woman's three wheeled walker
was the same dark
sparkling red as my first good
bike. And when I'm 80 or more
that is the walker I shall
have and I too will take it to the park
and let it glint in the sun as I sit
nearby and as I go back to the days when I cycled
for hours -- 30, 50 miles at a time -- and
listen to the the tick of the gears and oil and
light in the spokes and listen to the slap
of fountains and the whine of a distant
siren. Or not. I might have to imagine those
things, but my dark sparkling red
machine will be there as I open a white
paper dental bag from the prostedontist's office
and as I admire where I am and what I am
and what I have been.
Copyright Louise Robertson
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Copyright Louise Robertson