Ka-bump

The wooden rocker thumped
Steadily
Across worn floorboards
On the front porch.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Children ran
Biked and skipped past
All day
Every day.
Through milky eyes
He watched them.
They ignored him.

Ka-bump

Morning sun slanted
Across his lap
While his legs slowly pumped
His rocking chair.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Deep purple blood spots
Of varying size
Bruised both arms.
His arthritic hands
With knobby knuckles
Hung limply from the rocker’s
Arm rests.

Ka-bump

Occasional rains nurtured
His daughter-in-law’s
Black-eyed Susans
And hydrangeas
Bordering the broken and cracked
Front walk.
He would watch the rain
Beneath the ceiling
Above the porch.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

At two-fifteen
Every day, but Sunday
The postman
Stepped to the old man’s right
Placing his delivery in the box.
He would smile and say
Good day Mr. James.
No reply ever came.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

The old man rocked.
He rocked
Rocked
Rocked
All day
Every day.

Ka-bump

When his son returned home
He would follow him
Into the white frame house
In the middle of the block
On Tulip Avenue.

On a Tuesday
The children played
And the old man watched.

Ka-bump
Ka-bump

Nobody heard the old man speak.

Ka-bump

It was the first word
He had spoken
Since the stroke
Silenced him
Thirteen years ago.

Ka-bump

He spoke once
And he never spoke again.

Ka-bump

His hands tensed on the arm rests
When he said
“Abigail.”

And the rocker stopped forever.