He falls down. It's a motor thing.
A disease that we both hate.
Parkinsons, that wretched sting
That's been too much of late.
If I am not at hand when he
Decides his fate is not a lock,
I'll hear a thud and sadly see
He tried and couldn't walk the walk.
We work to get him on his feet
And back into a nearby chair.
Unspoken words between us meet
And permeate the condo air.
For we both know that it's a test.
We struggle to survive
And fight on with out very best
To keep some hope alive.
For all he is, he's all I've got,
That silly ageless clown.
Without him, what would be my lot?
My own heart falling down.
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