Canes

Canes hang off door knobs
and the backs of chairs.
They swing from towel rods and rockers
and stand in corners.

They are our new reality
and we have become comfortable
in their presence.

My father’s cane is big and heavy
with a smooth rounded handle
he could hook a giraffe with.

A man with a weapon is twice the man he is without.

My mother’s is as light as a baton,
as light as she once was on her feet.

Oh, how she twirled around the dance floor,
like a goldfinch on a feeder.

Now she’s twice the woman with it
than she would be without.
She taps it on the floor to emphasize a point
and hunts for lilies under the daffodils with the rubber tip.
She swats at the weeds around her hydrangea
like a barmaid at a drunk.

When I see it and not her, I wonder
where she’s gotten herself off to.
When I walk up the sidewalk
and see it lying in the flowerbed,
I wonder at what called her away,
and I try to remember what I was doing that was so important
it superseded my visit.