Willie Mays stumbled out of the batter’s box in his last year.
He then fell on a cold chalk line.
Robert Frost mumbled lines at JFK’s inauguration.
He didn’t try to finish the poem on a frigid day.
Elizabeth Taylor flubbed lines.
She turned from heavy to fat, no more major roles.
I turned, nudged my coffee cup and hot liquid spilled on me.
“No, we can clean it up. You stay there,”
Spoken at my lined face.
I looked up and the red and yellow engine was yards away.
I fell backwards.
The engineer blew a harsh whistle.
My pant’s leg caught in the bike chain.
I fell forward:
Ripped left arm.
Bruised right knee.
Bruised right wrist.
Sweets in hand broken on the street.
Had nearly fallen a day before.
Willie left baseball.
Frost went to his cabin, no more writing.
Taylor slumped into seclusion.
I check the coffee cup.
I get serious about stop, look, listen.
I fasten the helmet, check legs, focus ….
The signs are there ….
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky late February 2013