A Bonus Year
I see him hunched
a thin beaked bird
mouth lines creviced to meet
the doorstep, chin blood speckled -
he shaved this morning
hands claws, knobbled at the knuckle
his boot on the shortened leg
a prisoner’s stone
tied to the ankle
he crossed the road yesterday
too far to the crossing
looked left and right, looked left again
walked, dragging his boot
a car - where was it?
he jumped - and made it
he sits eyes closed
the air in the flats, hot
curdled with urine, food, body smells
his hand traces the phone book -
I search for the doctor’s address -
All dead, he says
Not all. He’s here.
Alone. Ninety-one.
A bonus year, he says.
Page(s) 43
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