Walker

In her kitchen, the back feet of ma's walker
have gouged holes so deep in the linoleum
that wood now blinks through in spots.
One patch—maybe six inches by three—
looks like New Jersey. Another, stoveside,
she says resembles a clenched fist,
or with the right light, Gary Busey.
Shallower channels mark her routine
from living room and back, but they too
will eventually split—just give it time.

Often, I see stubborn, see careless,
see can't-tell-her-anything. Because sure:
She drags all six of her feet, refuses
tennis balls which might otherwise serve
to dull her carving. She is assuredly
a stubborn old woman. But some
afternoons—when the sun needles
down between the blind’s angled slats
to thread the room through—if I look fast
I see a little girl, learning to walk.