A Left-Handed Poem

by M.L. VanBlaricum

An old trombone injury has acted up,
my arm is in a sling.
After sixty years of being right-handed
I am left-handed,
for six weeks.

Typing is not an issue,
I’ve always hunted and pecked.
Now, I am half as slow.
Ctrl/Alt/Delete is an issue.

Buckling my belt is an issue.
So is buttoning my pants.
I sprained my left index finger
pulling the button hole to the button.

Using the remote control is not an issue.
Wasting time watching what it controls is.

Opening a Coke bottle is an issue.
Beer with twist off caps is the brew de jour.

I have learned to type on my BBerry
with my left thumb.
Now I’m ambithumbdrous.

I can hold a book open left-handed.                               

Turning the pages is a problem.
Time to switch to an e-book?
I think not,
But, that can be rethunk.

Growing a beard
keeps me from bleeding to death.
Trimming the beard is dicey.
Oh for a pair of left-handed scissors.

I can't take the garbage out,
That's a positive.
I am gallant however,
And hold the door open for my wife.

I can put my socks on,
if they're old and stretched at the top.

I can't tie my shoes.
Having my wife do it is demeaning -
to both of us.
I now wear sandals.
Sandals, a beard, lookout Sixties here I come!

Brushing my teeth left-handed
the toothbrush went up my nose.

I'm sloppy using a spoon.
A fork becomes a weapon.
Cutting my meat is difficult.
I shy away from restaurants.

My daughter says that it is good
for old people to learn a new skill –
it sharpens the brain.
All things considered,
I would rather be learning
to juggle.

And what does she mean,
 “old people”?

©April 2011