Wobblers (Fun Poem 176) Poem by David Harris

At one time you could see
a lot of wobblers
just after the pubs called time.
Now the wobblers you see
are the decrepit souls like me.
I have joined the age
of the walking stick brigade
and have become a wobbler.
When standing still too long
my legs become jelly
and I lose my balance.
Whenever I wobble my only problem is
when I stick my hand out to steady myself
everything is smaller than me
at six foot three and a half.
I reach out and grab
nothing but empty air
and that does not hold up
someone as tall as me.
So I stand there and shrink
wobbling to my knees.




19 October 2015