with tender trespass
the tumor was taken
from my head now my face
barren as a dry river bed is idle as a loose fitting day
my gait
mindless
as a tangle of sticks and my hand
bends around the neck of an ebony cane now
thin as rice paper my pride
is brittle as a Sunday afternoon and I miss
the elegance
of walking straight ahead
now only the old man not always handy with words
meets my eyes without question
and with his well worn thumb touches
my cheek
