Old Feet
I walk at my own pace;
in no way do I run a race,
no stumble, no fall,
no longer quite as tall.
Still I follow behind
she who is mostly blind;
my hand steadies gently,
concentrate intently,
one foot, one crippled limb
betrayed by stroke, still turns in.
Sitting still, my eyes move
down to my own feet, as if to prove
they have not betrayed me;
even though for her, I must agree
mere walking is such a challenge
with structural change of phalange.
Feet are necessary to be stable
support what’s above, to be able
to walk, amble at will –
hope mine will serve me until.
I no longer choose to move ahead,
preferring my comfortable bed.
Like Him or Not
nod to my father, his stance,
played the game, a dance of men
over women, never a chance
to compete, not really; father
passed me by to shake the hand
of the man I planned to marry.
That hand would hold an iced-filled
glass like him, scotch ember sip,
don’t take any lip from a girl, woman
with their floozy-painted nails, their
job to care for home and family while he
swung hand like his watch fob, connecting
or not, smiles to peers, perfect worker, friend
to many who never saw jeers to children, wife,
just knuckle under, support man, breadwinner;
is dinner ready yet, going to read the paper,
cigarette, glass in hand, their value pales beside
father and the guy I married, like him or not.
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