Time's Scythe Poem by Max Reif

I stood atop the stairs
that overlook the parking area,
watched a stooped, white-haired lady
inch along with her walker,

white hair and coat amid
the sea of black asphalt.
I grew tired, even watching her,

then descended the stairs and crossed
the asphalt into the laundry room
assuaging my mind with the cliche,
'She must be so patient! '
and thinking that was the end of that.

Coming back out of the laundry room
five minutes later, I passed her
sitting on her walker to rest.
'You have to be so patient! ' I said
pleasantly in the
necessity of conversation.

'I must have been behind a door,
the day they gave
out patience! ' she replied,
and told me of three surgeries
that have left her this way
for the past three years.

'So I just go on like this, '
she smiled, as gracious
as a hostess.

'Are you getting more patient? '
I asked, hoping to hear someone,
somewhere reporting palpable progress
at something.

'Ask my husband about that! '
she said, and I walked
back up the stairs
with my still-good legs,

having heard from her exactly
what I would say
were our positions reversed,

and the stairs were like the years
to when I may indeed
be standing in her shoes.