Not Time Yet
I watched him shuffle the track
at the YMCA, slow, stooped
looking down, holding the rail,
and I said to myself
Parkinson's,
and when he left the track
he brought coffee to his wife
who was sitting at a table
near the table I sit at now
with my laptop, and I see them
sit silently, read an old newspaper,
no glimmer of smile, and I know
their journey like the back of my hand,
but I will not speak to them,
will not interrupt, will not tell them
I noticed, as perhaps the man thinks
it is not obvious, but it is, and this
is the beginning or perhaps the middle,
and I watch him stand now, slowly,
with difficulty he rises from the chair,
to throw his Styrofoam cup away,
then follow his wife somewhere, and
I imagine he was one who once led,
one who arose quickly, set the pace
before the awful disease claimed
his body, dignity, grace, rendered
him invisible to many, ignored when
he began to speak, his voice softer now,
couldn't get anyone's attention, invisible,
weakened, a strong voice merely
an echo,
see me, hear me, please,
his face a mask of former strength,
don't you know I was handsome once,
or does he still fool himself,
do they still fool themselves,
that this is as bad as it will get,
and would that be bad if they were,
but I won't tell them, not time yet,
as it is a difficult journey, individual,
that there is no way to beat
this dreaded life-stealing disease.
This poem was written to the NaPoWriMo prompt for day 11. Write a poem of 40 or more lines. This has 40 lines.
