Dedicated Activist

A folded, wheeled walker
Waits for a verb, a life,
Which has to be human,

To stand, lean, get a grip
On hard rubber handles,
And push the contraption,

Precariously, down
The hospital hallway.
This is called therapy.

Turn, laboriously.
Now the walker shuffles
The other direction,

And this is called progress.
Play it for comedy
Or play it for pathos,

The body continues
To forward the sequence,
Then lurches into bed.