Tom knew,

Tom knew,

It wasn’t the clock on the wall

Nice clock though it was,

He could hear the tick-tock

From the far side of the room

It was so quiet,

He knew time was passing

By the rise and fall of his chest.

Even as he sat

He still breathed

In a regular way

In and out

He found consolation

In its constancy,

Counting was a comfort.

From time to time

He did struggle to his feet

Urination was a period

Of high anxiety

His waterworks seemed to have eroded

With the passage of years

As corroded as the Victorian pipework

Beneath the streets of London

He noticed the arm of his chair

Discoloured by grease

From his hands

As he levered himself up

For the thousandth time

Up and down

Up and down

With increasing difficulty.

Sometimes he slept

Sitting in the chair all night

Wearing the same clothes

Day after day.

At least he went to the loo under his own steam

Although the stream was a little wayward

And unpredictable.

Sitting down to pass water

Was unmanly,

So his dad would have said,

But it created less mess.

His mother would have protected the chair

With antimacassars,

Embroidered

Fine white lace or Irish linen

To match the table runner.

He could have done that

If only he could raise the energy

To make a decision.

The carers who called by

Didn’t notice

Barely pausing in their efficiency

Repeating the same phrases

Everyday.

If they called him “good man”

One more time

He would move his bowels

Out of sequence

Which would make a mess

Of their time schedule

As well as their uniform.

But that might backfire

If the sourfaced one,

Who walked through the door

Without knocking,

Gave him another Chinese burn.

He wondered whether

That was a racist thing to say.

These days

Encounters were a minefield

Of high expletives

And a low threshold for humour.

He looked up at the clock,

Five more minutes

And he could have a beer.

Just the one,

It was all his bladder could take

Before he needed

A puncture repair kit.