Parkinson Poem by Leslie Philibert

The threatening natue of
artificial objects,
not snow dropping from pines
nor windows shattered with frost

but the flight of keys and bells
and all that begs for subtle asides,
all that is malevolent for this;

all that falls,
that disobeys my hands,
those white apes mapped
with the views of the Via Dolorosa,

all things that make my dry box spin,

my body does not follow me,
I often see to look
over my shoulder

at the dark detective of age.