‘Withering Slights’ by Michael Glassman

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.