Parched
He looks around uncertainly, focuses
on what has changed. His glasses are gone,
hearing aid too; no socks, loose slippers,
he’s wearing someone else’s shirt. The tv’s
a long way off and muted. So many faces
he can’t place.
There are screams and sobs; bodies sleep
or rock in wipe clean wing chairs. In his lap,
old hands are clasped, one with a wedding
ring. He tries to make patterns from magnolia
walls, unfamiliar floor tiles, a bitter stench
of stale and fresh urine.
His throat parched, he asks for tea but they say
it isn’t time yet. There should be a fire
with a mantlepiece and family photos, a glass
cabinet of books and souvenirs. A view over
the quarry: layers of orange and white that change
with the light and the seasons.
He smells fresh cut flowers from his garden,
hears sea breaking on the pebbles. This is the door
to his roses, his wife. I want to go home. He pushes
the bar, an alarm goes off.