Old man on a bed
see him wake,
rheumy eyes wet
to days long weary
of waiting.
Once there was time
to waste
sigh tomorrows dream away.
Today springtime
holds no promise.
He's frightened.
(Should religion come in here?)
Did he do well
or save
the best till last
in forgetfulness?
They say,
there's a real live angel
behind a wicked woman's guise
Wanting to puke
at her over bright face
that known smile
cuts deep.
No pain
just the unbearable
familiarity of touch
so similar..so very similar
He'll refuse to cry
at scrubbing towels
on baby skin.
Seal ears as water gushes
drips drip drips
into stainless steel.
(He remembers music)
and pretends he's not here
or there or anywhere.
Existing in the in between,
hating this personal care
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