Observations of an old lady

For many years I got used to old age
by watching her when walking to the shops,
past my front window like a great big bag
of ripe bananas in her yellow frock:
Her dragging legs, her cough, and the tap tap
of her white stick gave her away for sure.
And equally the brown dog on a leash,
forever nudging up at her, the hoarse
croak of her voice assuring him, and too,
the orange dots on her designer bag.
On her way back, she hardly coped with it:
the dog, the stick, the bulking plastic bags.
I often called her in and made her tea.
Her shadow falling through my door would bring
up close, and in a flash, the awkwardness
and burden of old age, a dreaded thought.
Now it has reached me too, no longer can
I see. My eyes and ears gave up some time ago.
What I rely on is my hearing aid.
My memory is still reasonably sharp,
but I can’t read the letters on my cup:
If you can see, look. If you can look, observe.
I look inwards these days. I watch my friend-
who has been dead for years. God bless her soul-
without her stick run faster than her dog.
She definitely has slimmed down, I see.