Beverly’s Cane

Beverly can recite the Emancipation Proclamation

using her cane for punctuation.  

She will thrust her cane at any jackass

nearby and he’ll fall back in his chair 

wishing Lincoln hadn’t used so many commas.

When she walks to her seat in a theater

everyone in every row stands up 

to move out of her way. If there’s a dingbat

who complains about being inconvenienced, 

she waves her cane at him. He’ll fall over dead.

Beverly can run marathons with her cane.

She can jump over the Lincoln Memorial,

and land beside the reflecting pool.

Only—right now, last month, today, every day,

she forgets who I am and calls me Emily.

When the ambulance comes because she

can’t get her breath, she so adores

her cane she shouts to the EMTs to

give it to her or she’ll not lie down

on their damn stretcher.

Beverly is so fond of her cane

she has ten of them, all equally

beloved. I’m thinking

she has a name for each one,

but she keeps that a secret.

Beverly will want her cane in her casket.

She’ll want the preacher at her funeral

to say a special blessing for it.

That cane better be with her wherever

she ends up. Just thinking of her cane 

will grant her the power to call me 

and tell me where to bring it to her.