Lucky none have seen him slip and fall.
Mustn't know his strain to stand at all.
Many wondrous stories he could share.
Pass them by as if he wasn't there.
Try to help, a plate slips from his hand.
Whispers seem a guarded reprimand.
With, "I'm sorry", asks them for a broom.
Told don't worry. Shuffles to his room.
Often teens will peek when he's asleep.
Perfect size computer room retreat.
Glance at all his keepsakes still unpacked.
Confident their future plans intact.
Enter rooms, their words become a cough.
When he leaves, begin where they left off.
Waking from a dream, he's loved again.
None must know his struggle just to stand.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
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