They took Ron’s scooter

Away.

Rules you know,

Regulations.

The wheel tracks

Were hard on the staff.

Eighty year old mobile

Free spirits are hard to handle.

I saw Ron once after

Dark

Scooter screaming down

The street, the triangular

Orange flag like Ron’s

Grey hair blowing in all

Directions,

The look on his face

Like an excited ten year old

School boy just out of

His window onto his bike,

Heading for the graveyard

To meet his buddies for

A midnight adventure.

I think Ron was headed for

The strip club and a glass

Of beer and a

Recharge for the sparkling

Twinkle in his eyes.

That’s what Teal,

Collector of antiques,

Connoisseur of fine

Coffees and wines

Still dancing after

Thirty-five,

Still looking good,

Told me.

I haven’t seen Ron

For some time.

Perhaps he’s been

Assigned an

Old fashioned wheel chair,

The ones arthritic hands

Can’t move alone,

It’s easier for the staff

To manage people this way.

Placed on the patio

In the sun,

Sometimes too long,

Sometimes forgotten

In the rain,

The unspoken

Pain of

Potted People.

© Stephen Nesbitt