I wander as lonely as a drunken fool, across the fields of black and grey,

bemoaning my attempts at steady forward motion.

These manmade battlements, undulating across mother earth,

must be mountain ranges, else why would my feet slip, trip,

threaten meetings betwixt this ungainly body and artificial floor.

I swear there are some magnetic forces at play, tying my feet it knots,

either that or Parkinson’s has hit another home run.

Feeling as out of place as an African Lion on a Cheshire plain,

I plough resiliently on, with furrows of frustration cultivated on my face.

Ridicule leaps from your eyes, feasting on my self-consciousness, as we pass.

Walk instructions sent on the faltering Dopamine Railway Network

barely reach their destination intact, resulting in minimalist footfall.

Out comes my stick to steady the ship then, through society’s stereo-type,

I am changed from middle age man to state pensioner.

A curse upon Parkinson’s, mind you its nice when old ladies open doors for me.

©Phil Golding 01/09