He falls into grace occasionally,
remembers dawn’s colors, old
lovers’ names, his favorite song.

He asks for home, forgets
this small room is his home,
that the place where he loved,
laughed with friends, carved
his heart into a tree,
has vanished beneath his feet.

He drops forty pounds, his knees
throb. His first wife appears,
disappears into the shallow walls.

Strangers in white bring him food,
pick him up when he falls,
wash his socks, his red shirt.

‘Don’t get old’, he advises his son,
before he again slips through
that veil of a thousand dreams.

Pris Campbell
(c)2012

Published The Dead Mule Spring 2012


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