BUZZARDS ARE GATHERING

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

Dan Roberson