Parkinson’s
My left arm, apt and agile, has the knack
Of swinging with a youthful nonchalance.
My right is stiff. My right hand shrinks and claws,
Reluctant to lift cups or open doors.
It’s the deft fingers of my left that dance
Over the keyboard, while the right hangs back.
My left side’s young, my right is getting old.
The two time periods are not meant to meet
And yet these hands can touch. My different ages
Are like a photo album’s facing pages.
The right side feels the theft of what was sweet.
The left cannot ignore what is foretold.
