30 Years On
A man opens his trunk,
takes tentative backward steps as the lid slides open,
careful of the wheelchair slightly opened at his side.
He moves slowly,
lifts the metal chair awkwardly
over the lip of the trunk.
It is probably not his;
he brings a companion to today’s appointment,
a trip that will fill most of the day
until they return home
to the silent soundtrack of slow waiting.
I am just a passing driver on the road,
pulling out of the store with fresh coffee
and a donut, happening upon this scene as
I rush out into the sunshine and pleasant summer day,
having already slammed the lid on my trunk
after tossing in the golf clubs and shoes.
I have a different appointment on my calendar,
oblivious to the pace of this man
who lives a different day.
I hope he was me at one time,
and I know my future contains his day.