He braces his shoulder
against the cold plaster wall
to steady himself.
Shuts his eyes
to focus.
His hand trembles,
a frantic cardiograph
driven by blood weaving
through his brain, where
dopamine starved neurons
will pulsate, whither.
The envelope flaps like
an old baseball card
wedged into his bicycle spokes
on days he used to race down
the Highland Avenue hill.
The bike with the handlebars
he couldn’t always grip
and the pedals
his feet sometimes missed.
Cursing, he tries again
but the mail slot
is too thin for him now.
Last week, she had to
tie his shoelaces.
He remembers the fragrance
of cucumber and spice
when he leaned over
to kiss her on the head.
He wonders when his
muscles will harden,
no longer able to pry
his mouth open for the pills--
the new ones the doctor said
probably wouldn’t work
but were still worth a try.
against the cold plaster wall
to steady himself.
Shuts his eyes
to focus.
His hand trembles,
a frantic cardiograph
driven by blood weaving
through his brain, where
dopamine starved neurons
will pulsate, whither.
The envelope flaps like
an old baseball card
wedged into his bicycle spokes
on days he used to race down
the Highland Avenue hill.
The bike with the handlebars
he couldn’t always grip
and the pedals
his feet sometimes missed.
Cursing, he tries again
but the mail slot
is too thin for him now.
Last week, she had to
tie his shoelaces.
He remembers the fragrance
of cucumber and spice
when he leaned over
to kiss her on the head.
He wonders when his
muscles will harden,
no longer able to pry
his mouth open for the pills--
the new ones the doctor said
probably wouldn’t work
but were still worth a try.
Kevin Stuart Brodie has had four plays produced and two screenplays have been optioned by production companies. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize in poetry. He was also a 2020 Writer-in-Residence at the historic home of Edwin Way Teale, and at Millay Arts in 2021 and 2023. www.kevinstuartbrodie.com