Tell everybody I’m still kicking and stomping,
just not quite as high.
Didn’t have much for lunch, had an avocado
for breakfast. Ran a rag over the counter,
nudged the broom across the bedroom floor.
Feet don’t move how they did.
Watched the ceiling
from her side of the bed.
Washed the pillowcase
from her side of the bed.
Unfolded a lawn chair beside the chicken yard.
The hens hate snow.
Woke up this morning,
found one of her combs
behind the toaster.
Not a bit of hair between the bristles.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
See all items about Elijah Burrell