Ninety Six

The wheels support her penguin walk.
Her bones are bending under age.
She stops, she sits, she flicks a switch.
Designer wheelchair motors on,
Reminding her of grandsons two.

Her chariots of carven wood
Had failed even to bring a smile
Upon those lips so petulant
Demanding cars remote-controlled.

The whirring motors clashed and scratched
Against each other through the day.
An FD of a lifetime’s work
Reduced in weeks to plastic trash.

The grownup twins remembered, though.
They sent their grandma costly gifts.
An FD of a minor sum
Returned a profit manifold.

And how she smiled the day she saw
The cars they bought with US cash.
As shiny as those plastic toys.
And just as fragile on the road.

By accident of paperwork
She found she was the next-of-kin
In nomination documents
Resolved in foreign embassies.

She stops, she stands, she takes support
Upon designer wheelchair arms,
And trudges on in penguin walk,
Unbending bones that hold her back.

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