By Tim Philippart

I watched her for four afternoons,
out my window,
across the street,
stuck in the snow,

she punched into her driveway,
every day, she was halfway up
when her Toyota spun to a stop.

each time I thought I’d help,
each time I remembered my age,
recalled my conditions,
realized my days of rescuing are o’er.

so she shoveled,
extricated herself with much avail,
to corral her Corolla
in the garage.

then today, she was stuck in the morning,
she just needed a shove,
just put my shoulder to it,
ride Rocinante to the rescue one more time.

the car flew free,
and for just a moment,
I was a young knight again,
and then I fell flat on my face.

She thanked me as she helped me up,
asked if I was all right,
I gamely grinned,
said glad to help.

Rocinante led me home, our tails between our legs,
and once inside we wept,
not from the pain but,
because our prime was past.


Tim sold his business, retired to write and discovered that wasn’t very retired at all. He ghost blogs, writes poetry, nonfiction and an occasional magazine piece.  Send email to 


Author: authorbios

The literary journal dedicated only to author bios.

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