Old age makes a
Sloth out of you.
Whenever my grandmother sits
It takes her legs
(which she thinks
Do not at all belong to her now)
Half an hour to
Come back to their usual position.
Not a good sight to experience.
It however made me
Think about poetry in general.
The style in which I write about you
And the way the poem comes out.
If I make this poem sit cross-legged
By making it think about our intermittent tiffs
It would take the poor soul
Enough time for it to come back to
What those tiffs were originally intended for:
To display to the world the side effects of love.