Another Hand

The old poet, too sick to paint,

too tired to garden,

sits in his wing back and plays solitaire

until another poem strikes him,

then tap, tap, tap,

and soon it passes

so he plays spades online,

as he tires of the solitaire.

He thinks to himself,

I am not really that old,

I thought I would be much older

before I became so feeble,

but his body answers without a doubt,

“you are old, old man.”

He sighs and deals out another hand,

grateful that sometimes,

at least, the little man

with the typewriter still gives

him a poem or two.