by Erica Brenes
As he flags under the weight
Of the passing green bean casserole,
He twists his stroke-stricken tongue
He struggles to speak sentences,
To enunciate niceties, to stumble
Over syllables that refuse to sound.
Besieged by all the many things
He cannot do, he sputters, he spits.
He makes me wonder why any of us bother.