There were two, one
Stacked upon the other
Which I carried with
One hand, the other
Needing the walking
Stick to keep us
Upright, and the cakes
From smearing the dirt
Path with white frosting.
It isn’t so bad being old.
No one will wonder if I fall,
If the cakes are lost
On this strange trail no one
Else seems interested in.
Out of breath I stop
And lean my stick
Against a tree.
Jessica lies down next to me
And licks the frosting from a cake.
I rescue the other for myself.
No one wonders or complains.
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