I start to age ten minutes out of bed,
More fragile now but not yet dead.
My son-in-law hovers round me when I walk
In case I stumble as we talk.
My daughter’s gift to me: a three-pronged cane
Concealed within the quiche Lorraine.
A stranger volunteers his seat to me.
The spine’s the bane of the elderly,
L4 and L5 express their relief
At respite for their commander-in-chief.
Since others hold a door with a “There you go,”
Call me “Papa” as I walk slow,
And tell me that “The door button’s on the left,”
I go home feeling less bereft.

 

Michael Glassman is a 75-year-old retired Social Studies teacher living in Newburgh, N.Y.


NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to mbryant@classicalpoets.org. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here.

4 Responses

  1. E. V.

    Good morning! I love the title’s wordplay (Withering Heights > Withering Slights) Brilliant! It’s definitely a humourous poem that I enjoyed reading. The cane/Lorraine rhyme is good, but I’m a little confused on how a quiche can conceal a cane? It’s good that today’s young people respectfully offer their seats to the elderly.

    Reply
  2. David Hollywood

    What a wonderfully reflective poem opening all the pangs of reflection as we grow older. Many thanks.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.