Ken's Poetry

Wheels

Harry Porter

When my knee aches and I wear my little limp
I think of you, the morning struggle
clambering out of bed, hauling on your clothes.
Everything in the kitchen’s at head height.

We cannot stroll together across the park
or hike across the hill down to the lake,
most restaurants might as well have bars
for everywhere I look are kerbs and stairs,
upstairs often unreachable to you.

Life moves apace inside your mind,
your books, the radio,
opera on the waves.
Sometimes your pen like fiddler’s bow
scrapes out a verbal tune
crisp coated with humour
and when I hear the muscle in you voice
when you perform

the wheels are gone.