The Crow

I lay abed alone this morn, scarce dragged myself from sleep,
Thinking I might stay here, this my place to keep.
I thought about the work and toil, simply myself to clothe,
Then I, with mounted effort, bade myself arose.

I am the man who cannot walk, the one who cannot stand,
Yet flung my useless legs bedside, my curled up toes to land.
Twist and turn and pull and slide, I wiggled into pants,
Then saw with hopeless, sad dismay, I sat in jeans askance.

On I went or went on me, compression socks atight,
I own two pair, and that is all, I wash them other nights.
My shirt I pull with tired hands, hands that were once proud,
And in the mirror, see myself, at once I sigh out loud.

But push I must, and push I do, to get the moment past,
For time is short, for me at least, I have not much to waste.
With push and lift I move myself into my waiting chair,
Its black and steel look back at me, an empty cruel stare.

Yet with its ease I glide along, across the wooden floor,
A simple push and off I go, it doesn't take much more.
Kitchen bound to break my fast, to eat just what I please,
Coffee, egg, cheese and ham, a tray across my knees.

Off once more I go a roll, a place to rest my eyes,
Where threatening clouds of grey and black roll cross the prairie skies.
I see them there beyond the pane, out and past my tree,
A slash of blue peeks here and there, to come and comfort me.

So now I sit, the birds a-chirp, singing me their song,
Then suddenly, and all at once, fleeing in a throng.
And black it comes, the bird of death, driving them from play,
Its hooked beak, its harshness speak, its greed to take away.

He hangs upon a branch or two, he doesn't see me yet,
He looks with hunger, looks around, to see what he can get.
Here I am, awaiting him, I sit alone and gaze,
Know I this, that it will come; the crow will end my days.