Poetry: “Room 707”

In a wheelchair in the hallway 

Amid nurses in purple scrubs 

His lilting Irish song snippets 

Greeted passersby. His blanket 

—NY Giant fleece in Florida heat— 

Was curled on legs now thin as arms 

Which once stood strong at six-foot–two 

But not since March. And it was May. 

He thought the spoonfuls of turkey 

I fed him in baby pieces 

Were hilarious, but then he 

Was full after three. Halting words, 

Heaved in shrapnel shards, detritus 

From shattered memory mosaics, 

Their only sense grammatical, 

Replied that he was doing fine. 

He craned his neck to call Aunt Peg, 

—Long dead—there on the small sofa. 

And as always, more than ever, 

My welled up eager beggar’s eyes 

Sought Dad’s look of recognition.​ ​