a lost sun sets on the old folk's home
streaming thru slight cracks
between pale yellowed curtains
dividing each room
with eerie luminous walls
essence of alcohol fills the air
echoing coldly off corridor walls
the click, click, clicking
of heals on wax tile floors
set a clumsy beat
for a symphony of moans
and labored breathing
i peer in doors ajar
where ancient, hollow eyes plead
why?
and in a certain room
stares a blank familiar face
Charlie Thrash, i remember
that crabby ol' bastard
who lived on Salem Church road
with the fine shaded pond
on his property
oh, those precious largemouth bass
when caught trespassing
years ago
he'd shoot rock salt at us
i'm told they took his farm away
to pay for this attention
sure is strange
to see this once proud man
curled up in a fetal position'
he wakes and starts crying
nurse says he's wet
damned, third time today
wrestling him like a calf
she changes his bedclothes
i turn and walk away
he used to be so mean
and vibrant
ah, he was just playing a game
probably acted that way
out of malice senility
or secret artificial anxiety
like woman-child's fallacy
drunk, i hear the news
ol' Charlie gave up the ghost
what the hell
it's just as well
why should i be particular
as shadows cross my shoulders
Houston, Texas '81
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