BUZZARDS ARE GATHERING
I’m moving slowly this morning.
My back hurts as I do the Parkinson’s shuffle.
One foot, now the next,
Not too fast, I warn myself.
This dance is not for the weak.
The buzzards are gathering.
I’m not dead, but I haven’t had my coffee.
Usually I pour the hot steaming liquid
With finesse and flair.
But today the smell of death hangs in the air.
I’m too tired to put the little container
Into the coffee maker and push start.
I’ve lost mastery over that art.
My muscles have been cramping,
My hands have been shaking,
Neurons and glial cells shrinking,
Nothing I can see, yet it’s happening to me.
I continue to function
Learning and memory gain as my goal.
Regeneration of brain cells.
I search for some research
That offers me a cure,
Or a reason for hope
Or a reason to laugh
Or a reason to live and love.
I look around.
The buzzards are still gathering.
April 20, 2016