One At A Time

 
Melvin will soon lose both feet to diabetes.
The surgeons have already started on the left:
one toe at a time. He’s seventy years old.
Can still walk with the aid of a cane.
Can’t drive anymore because of his eyes.
His son Batman takes him where he needs to go.

Melvin heads straight to the candy dish
whenever he comes to visit.
You know what, Andy?
What? I ask.
I don’t care what they say about you,
you’re alright with me.
He laughs a toothless grin.

Melvin beat drugs and alcohol
years ago, he claims.
Now the sugar’s got him.
He chaninsmokes because they don’t allow it
in the hospital. Only pleasure I got left.
Less you count memories.

Next week they amputate his right little toe.
He thinks he’ll still be able to get around with a walker.
Otherwise Batman got to carry me to the wheelchair.
VA’s gonna gimme one of them electric jobs
cost 20 grand. I’ma be one of them guys you see
on the side of the road, flying the American flag,
drinking a Pepsi, smoking a cigarette.
Anywhere I wanna go, he says. He twists
his lips up in a knot. Rubs his eyes.
Getting old is hell, Andy.