Mulling it over

Down the stairs for the laundry.
Each step more slow and ponderous than the last.
The good hand slides smoothly on the banister.
The other dangles with barbed wire pain.
Tomorrow, once promised, is a bleak and blank page.
Mechanical now, robotic.
There is the thought:  Is this all there is?
And then:
Will it be soon?  Why must I wait?

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