sometimes he creaks out of his chair
and treads into the hall to where
he expects a bathroom instead of a wall
say he trudges back to his chair
say he sits and waits
say he wonders does nobody care
hadn’t he a mother?
hadn’t he a wife?
hadn’t he sisters?
wasn’t there life?
children in rooms or maybe outside?
where are they now that he needs a guide?
more rarely he walks to the window wide
in what he once called the living room
though nothing lives there now not even a book
and he stares through the window and outside fog
swirls and curls or sometimes just sits
as if almost as tired as he usually feels
he stands and he waits and returns to his chair
and tries to remember what he waits for
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