I hear the meter of my father’s gait,
his walker clattering through the hallway;
then, a rest, while he pauses for a breath.
His withered leg and foot disobey like
an errant child lagging behind. We bend
and lift his limbs so he can sit to watch
ball games, outfielders leaping for the catch.
Every morning he leans against the sink,
looks out the kitchen window for yellow
buses hauling children or for the trash
men. He studies the neighbor boy, chest thrust
into the yawning mouth of his pickup.
I used to adjust my timing, he says,
then turns to start his noisy waltz again.