Each year the table tilts a little more
Amd things roll off it to the floor

My health, my kicks, my energy
My body’s pain free functionality

All down there rolling around
With the dust, on the carpet, on the ground

Inaccessible to me, unavailable
Rolling off the tilted terrible table

What I still have is my memory
Or is that the group soul speaking, just a story

But some pieces of my memory are jagged
They won’t roll off if they’re jaded and ragged

They cling tenaciously, I have that at least
And my window

On the southwest corner of my house
The view west toward the lakes
And the endless prairies
It buffets the storms
In its rattly and leaky way
And shows the passing seasons
The nights, the days and my gardens

It’s what I have left and available
And the fragments on the tilted table