Walking Stick

I walk with you in the spaces between the clacks of your  stick against the road.

Your pace has me in  something like a limp, a  phantom wound, sewn shut with thread that ties me

to you. I hover slower behind the others with you, my silent thievery, stealing this moment

that else I’d lose to my hurry and downcast eyes. The time I have left with you could be hours

or seconds. Let me linger at the back of the group with you, and make jokes we won’t remember.