Part-time

Mornings you can talk,

forget your cane,

proceed with life,

watering your tomatoes,

mucking the compost,

picking limes.

Afternoons you stumble-

feet and speech left

behind in the yard,

your blue eyes

reflecting other than sky.

“What the hell are you doing?”

you ask your hands.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

you ask your nose, now running,

your feet marching in place.

“This is not my shift,” your body replies.

“Don’t you remember?

I get off at noon.

See you tomorrow-

we can argue again then.”