Outing

We take him to get new shoes.
93, nearly deaf, more frail
since the mini-stroke, every move
a complicated human braille.

Twitchy palm of time pressing
down, gravity a greedy partner
waiting at the curb. He swings
his one good leg out further,

feels for the sidewalk,
grips the teetering cane,
my wife at his side, the fall
foreseen like the fade

of his name. I pocket
the car keys, that reassuring beep.
I see his wobbling walk
when I try to sleep.