*

The other day I had what can only be described as a totter.

 A moment of feeble insecurity , the frailty showed through.

Once it would have been a forceful stumble, purposefully misplaced.

But now I take my place in the totter camp , waiting to own ‘a fall’.

*

Every home that housed my father heralded his coming as youth.

A sprightly 66 on the rail trail of decline, coasting down the mountain.   

I could not share their joy, that they had persevered to fourscore if not 7

and my father was being eaten at three and six, three quarters of a crown, indeed.

*

Ra slipped from the world in her sleep. A weakness sprung a leak in the night.

It was the same year Dad went to the home. A year of growing the fuck up.

We were 37 . No totters for Ra , no joints that grind like Bedford truck gears.

Getting old is the worst , but then the alternative is a hearse.