My cane opening with
Staccato.
We start down the obscured aisle
Trying to hide my infirmity.

I never take a major
Thoroughfare.
Too embarrassing,
As is dining out.
Forks slip through fingers,
Regularly.

Then there’s digging for change
To pay for a newspaper
While watched by an impatient clerk,
A plumber on his way to work,
A mother adding chips to her
Child’s lunch
And the child, himself, tugging at my jersey.

“They don’t understand,” I holler, silently.
I’m trying my best. Age rumbles in,
Advancing faster than my walking stick
Can handle.

Just you wait Urchin, just you wait.”