He looked out

He looked out

On a street much like any other

The everyday of its appearance

The impromptu greeting

Of morning

The fleeting moments of passers-by

None meeting his eye.

So much of the space is taken up

With the noise of bustle,

The activity of strangers

Sometimes he forgot

What he was doing

Why he was there

Vaguely disconcerted

Aware that

Something was missing

Lurking in the corner

Of his peripheral vision

The blank extremities

Of his existence

Where some of his memories

Slumbered

Cobwebbed

Mothballed

Wharehoused

As if they were curiosities

Of an industrial era

Deeply driven undercover.

Lost in a sea fret,

A fog of forgetfulness

Clouding his judgement

With nobody to remind him

What he was supposed to do

A living museum

A repository of insufficient worth.

He stood on the balcony

With a blank expression

Trying to remember why he

Came to be there

He should be doing something

But what

He couldn’t say