Newsletter

ON RECEIPT OF A LETTER ADDRESSED PERSONALLY!

There are insults and hints, I'm choosy 'bout which,

A nudge I can take with scarcely a hitch,

But how to define, delivered to me

A letter, suggesting I'm ready to be

Ensconced in a chair which can rise and recline

And then put to bed on adjustable pine.

Word must have leaked that I'm old and decrepit,

Not able to run, barely able to “step it”.

They clearly don't know me; all things mechanical

To me are mysterious, almost tyrannical,

My body, for instance, involute engineering,

Is out of control, trembling and fearing.

My legs don't go forward, more sideways or back,

Walking is awkward to keep straight, on track.

And my arms, oh my arms, flail around out of line,

Putting at risk any stray glass of wine.

Of which I've knocked plenty, over carpet, jigsaw,

I'm known all around, for being at war

With mind over matter, movement, control,

At which I am poor, fail in my goal.

Thus a chair which tips back and a bed that adjusts,

Might be too much for me, they're not really “musts”.

So I'll stay with my straight-back, solid and still,

Fall into bed, constant shape if you will.

Thanks for the letter, I'm sure it was meant

In the kindest of ways, though my image it bent.

A nudge, hint or insult, I'm not sure at all,

Bed legs and chair arms, on deaf ears they fall.

But if you have something for MY legs and arms,

Let me know and I'll buy it without any qualms!

Arthur B