Max - The Poetry Shelter

Max

When he sits there lately, playing pin the fork on the meal,
the witness thinks of himself as embarrassingly crude, a sick child.
It's been a while since DeKalb Ave and his days at the knitting factory.
It's been a while since he has played Spite and Malice with his love.
He eats his meals displaying a sour countenance, as if he is being denied
something.
Sure.
He wiles away the day now, staring in the direction of the TV - on some days
keeping the same channel on for hours - all day.
Lately he is simply a commuter, between bed and couch, couch and bathroom.
It has been a while since he was a subscriber to Reader's Digest.
It's been a while since he was able to perform those monotonous tasks,
his daily regimens he performed dutifully:
sweeping curbside sand in the spring,
arranging the municipalities winter gift into small piles to be collected
at his own pace over the course of a week,
sawing twigs with the pipe saw,
caring for the garbage disposal,
fetching bottles out of the woods
while wearing those old rubbers with the latches.
It's been a while since he could see out of both eyes.
It's been a while since he prepared his own tea or prepared
his morning meal himself.
It took a while to realize that he had to be helped with many things.
When it was said,
" Man, you look like you are eating your last meal before you
go off to the chair! "
" Whaddaya want me to do? Sing? "

© Sunshine 96