Steven Luria Ablon
GERIATRICS
Year after year I remember
watching my father grow old.
He would hold tight
to the banister as he
struggled up the stairs.
When he rose from a chair,
he would fall back like a car engine
stuttering, then right himself on the
embroidered arm of the chair.
Opening the door of the house
his hand would tremble at the keyhole
as he tried to unlock it.
At restaurants he receded at the end
of the table unable to hear, and join
the conversation, crestfallen as he waited
to pay the bill. Always the scientist
he said he was studying aging by living it,
insisted it was better than the alternative.
Now I am entering that dark
country walking like a bird
grasping a thin branch,
food collecting at the corners
of my mouth, fingers fumbling
as I button my shirt, tie my shoes.
I feel him with me step by step,
wish we were climbing up a bank
on the hill above the river watching
the trout jumping for flies on the water.