with apologies to Mark 10:8
He can’t hoist either hand above his head.
Her feet won’t stand more than a dozen steps.
He’s too nearsighted for the DMV.
Her fingers feel like she’s got mittens on.
When did his legs get too long for his arms?
When did her arms get too short for her eyes?
He can’t smell newsprint pressed against his nose.
She can’t hear Thanks while helping with his socks.
The kitchen bulb burns out for both and each.
She drives the car. He strides into Best Buy.
Back home, he brings the stool. She stretches high.
He shouts the recipe. She bakes the quiche.
He listens for the ding. She finds the plates.
He cuts. They eat. She tells him how it tastes.