Parkinson’s
She teeters and wobbles,
The natural gyroscope of her
Footsteps on earth twisted
Into a spinal corkscrew
By poisons that slow down
Phantom convulsions
To the pace of a snail
Hit by garden bait.
She doesn’t complain much,
And when I find her
Sitting out her ten-thousandth
Hour of doing nothing at all,
She is counting thanks
To her many benefactors
And weighing her blessings
On those who will survive her.
Wheeled out to restaurants
During my too-brief stay,
She eats and eats and eats
Like a lifer suddenly
Let out on parole,
Hamburger meat,
Crab sticks, calamari,
Oven-roasted goat meat,
Mouthful after mouthful,
Washed down with water
Sipped through a straw,
Her sucking reflex still
Alive after ninety years
Even as her eyes stay shut,
Too weary to take in more
Of what they feasted on
All throughout her long
Life as an artist.
