From a sufferer of Parkinson’s Disease

 

Most seem to say the night’s a drag,

though I wrest vape from pillow, slip,

and dangle legs from slippy sheets

so they can kick through bedside air,

until I slide, led heavy head,

matt beard to board, so down to rest.

 

It’s evenings when the hands crawl slow -

a windup, time mite, slide, minute,

of minute overtaking hour

then ambling, climbing to the top.

They creep, long watches of the light,

while timepiece, not to be disturbed.

 

I have my glass of tumbler thought,

pills, tablets where my writing wrought,

a would-be wordsmith stymied, caught

in time-warp, blackhole, worm event.

Who cares, like readership of three,

triple, trinitarian, me.

 

I write to save the counsel fees,

to push back on allotted time

when I have had enough of me.

I’ve known the husband taking leave,

brainstorm redressed, unbalanced mind,

but wonder if my time has come?

 

The plan is laid, strategy formed,

with due disguises in the fray,

to cause as little pain for loved,

avoid committed, termed a crime.

I’ll make fake news, a coverup,

a cocktail, bottles down the drain.

 

But did I follow through that dream,

as kids and grands, in hinterland -

no grief at stake, all be it sad?

You may search columns of obits,

the graveyards, scattered ash instead -

but I’m left hanging, swinging legs.