Wheelchair Joust
Wheelchair Joust
Riding their wheelchairs like silver steeds,
wearing no armor,
just sweat shirts, sweat pants, and house shoes,
two old gray men roll down the hallway at the nursing home
straight towards each other in a slow motion joust.
They creak along in a bizarre geriatric game of chicken.
At the last moment, one steers slightly to the side.
There are miscalculations and their wheels collide.
They look surprised and then suddenly angry.
Each grabs the armrest of the other one's chair
tugging and pushing and swearing.
The air turns blue with their spewed words of frustration.
Frustration more than just tangled wheels.
Frustration at being old, at lost years and lost freedoms.
Frustration at missed opportunities
and days that are numbered.
Frustration that causes a rage that runs deep and sad.
A young aide notices the jousters.
She gently pulls back the chair of one,
untangling the wheels with ease.
Just as suddenly as the old men flared,
their fire is put out.
They sizzle and fall silent,
with just a puff of smoke drifting up from their ears.
They spur their steeds on the sides
with their gnarled arthritic hands,
jabbing at the turning wheels,
continuing in opposite ways.
This skirmish is over.
Just a practice run
for the final battle still waiting ahead.
Riding their wheelchairs like silver steeds,
wearing no armor,
just sweat shirts, sweat pants, and house shoes,
two old gray men roll down the hallway at the nursing home
straight towards each other in a slow motion joust.
They creak along in a bizarre geriatric game of chicken.
At the last moment, one steers slightly to the side.
There are miscalculations and their wheels collide.
They look surprised and then suddenly angry.
Each grabs the armrest of the other one's chair
tugging and pushing and swearing.
The air turns blue with their spewed words of frustration.
Frustration more than just tangled wheels.
Frustration at being old, at lost years and lost freedoms.
Frustration at missed opportunities
and days that are numbered.
Frustration that causes a rage that runs deep and sad.
A young aide notices the jousters.
She gently pulls back the chair of one,
untangling the wheels with ease.
Just as suddenly as the old men flared,
their fire is put out.
They sizzle and fall silent,
with just a puff of smoke drifting up from their ears.
They spur their steeds on the sides
with their gnarled arthritic hands,
jabbing at the turning wheels,
continuing in opposite ways.
This skirmish is over.
Just a practice run
for the final battle still waiting ahead.
