If you recall, I sat with an elderly man who had a stroke and couldn't be left alone. I wrote this while I was sitting and watching him, nod off and waken to talk.

 

The Chair

The old man sits in a chair by the door

Waiting for someone who's been there before

His skin becomes thin like rice paper page

Drooped face now speckled with spots of his age

Tired head nods and bobs with white hair askew

The light leaves the sky the lawn fills with dew

No headlights appear and shaking his head

Weary he rises and shuffles to bed

The old man sits by the door in a chair

His brow is furrowed his face lined with care

Frequently he stirs thoughts surface and rise

His muscles twitching he opens his eyes

Through rheumy lenses and limited view

His youth's disappeared amazed how time flew

The chair's now empty filled only with dust

The door remains closed sealed tightly with rust