Not his real name
Not his real name either,
Meet in an unintelligible environment,
Clinical, yet, homely,
Hotel? Hostel? Hospital?
It is all a fog,
Stan, because of the progression of his dementia,
Len, because of his fading eyesight and general deterioration.
Side by side,
Looking out the window,
Len with shopping bags filled with pilfered belongings of others,
Stan, with his hands in his pockets.
Each respectful, tactful with one another,
Skirting around their mutual impediments,
That nothing is right,
But unsure how to get beyond their situation.
Doctors, nurses, therapists,
They come and go,
Smiling, cheery, cheeky.
Len and Stan, drink their Yorkshire tea,
Stan sits on Len’s bed and listens.
Len tells Stan that he has taken all his clothes,
Stan, looks into his shopper.
They hold-up a tattered slipper and establish that indeed, they both have very similar footwear.
Day moves into night,
The circadian rhythm tick tocks.
I go home, in my shiny car,
They stay behind,
Another moment taken-off the totality of their lives.