Shakin’

Shakin’ Steven’s how I’m known,

Welsh my plot, well hid in hills,

slowly sliding gradients,

sloping like a writing desk,

pretending antique by design,

visible – who said PD?

Standing stock still when I freeze,

kids taunt me as garden gnome,

though I walk rarely on the lawn –

stumble, roll like tumbleweed.

I do kick off, lying down –

insomnia pays off late.

That I prance, an irony,

scene on Zoom, my ballet screen,

arabesque and plié stance,

solo in my living room.

Dance for Parkinson’s my stake;

gold mine claim where not alone.