Adjustment

He sits on the edge of the floral sofa

and unclicks the latch above the knee.

It’s a dull, mechanical sound

that feels older than he’ll ever be.

There is no skin to bruise here,

no muscle to tire or bone to ache,

just the scuffed plastic of a heel

that won't ever bend or break.

He tugs a thick wool sock into place,

smoothing a wrinkle that can’t be felt,

preparing to walk to the porch

where the summer ice has begun to melt.

It’s strange to think that when he’s gone,

this part will still look exactly the same,

a foot that never needed a shoe

and a limb that never learned his name.