Woke up this morning with a
limp.
Was it from playing
football
In my dreams? Arthrite’s first
arrow?
Polio? Muscular dystrophy? (A bit of
each?)
I staggered around the kitchen spilling
coffee
Before hobbling to the bank for
lire
For the holiday I knew I would not be
taking.
(For Portofino read Stoke
Mandeville.)
Confined to a wheelchair for the
remainder
Of my short and tragic life.
Wheeled
On stage to read my terse, honest
poems
Without a trace of bitterness. ‘How
brave.
And smiling still, despite the
pain.’
Resigned now to a life of quiet
fortitude
I plan the nurses’ audition.
Mid-afternoon
Sees me in the garden, sunning my
limp.
***
It feels a little easier now.
Perhaps a miracle is on its way?
(Lourdes, w11.)
By opening-time the cure is complete.
I rise from my deck-chair:
‘Look, everybody, I can walk, I can walk.’