He was tired of reading,

He was tired of reading,

The book lay unopened on his lap

As his head bobbed.

Resting his eyes

Which is what his dad used to say

When he had nothing to do

But wait.

There was nothing to keep him now

Occupation is more than a job

And he has lost his purpose

The view is unchanging

He has seen it all before.

Sometimes when the rain comes

He feels like dancing

But it is soon over

Those days are long gone

Not that he ever danced very much

Unless it was with her.

The sound of birds bantering

Over foot space is a godsend

Otherwise, he would remove his hearing aids

A soundless world is glacial

He guessed it might be different

Had he always been deaf

Accepted the culture

But to be without music,

Would be his idea of hell.

Not that he feels too far away from that

Too old to be useful

Too young to be a curiosity.

The loss of standing

Has reduced him to a minor role

In his own life

Even the coverlet was chosen

By somebody else

He has kicked it off twice

In petty rebellion

At the lack of control.

He is stuck in a chair

It is a struggle to get out of

Praying that the bag doesn’t burst

Waiting for the door to open

And the carer to call.

The few moments of intimacy

The touch of skin

A few kind words,

Unless it is the other one

With the callous mouth

Rough hands

And sharp nails.

He would rather keep dreaming

Than wake up to her

Breathing onions into his face.