
Angles
He’s cursed with Parkinson’s disease;
I only have these dodgy knees.
His pills cause awful side-effects;
Viagra helps me to have sex,
while he has had to give it up -
he lacks the self-control to fuck.
He gives his all to keep his limbs
in check, not undermining him.
These days I watch the match alone,
he has the radio at home
and will not join me in the bar -
he’s off the booze, the walk’s too far.
Folk stared at his unsteady gait -
excuses just humiliate.
He finds solace in Jesus Christ;
I’ve lost it by the seventh pint.
And so on Summer days like this
I come along to help him fish.
He sits for hours without a bite,
we chat, I spot a passing kite
and note the shimmer of the lake
reflects his tremor, now a shake
endeavouring to bait the hook;
the fish, like me, can’t bear to look.
Raymond Miller
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Raymond Miller would be
pleased to hear them