Last Supper (Poetry)

It takes us a good while to get him ready
repeating like a mantra it’s his day
and there’s people coming for a special party
he nods but we can tell he’s miles away

It’s hard to watch him fumble round and dither
we catch each other’s eye — exchange a moue
of shared frustration — let indulgence gather
some sympathy. It’s all that we can do

Is this the man who used to be our father?
Is this the king who ruled our family? —
turned feeble in old age he moans and mumbles
apprentice ghost and shuffling parody

All set at last we wheel him to the venue
old colleagues there not seen in donkey’s years
survivors they’ve let out for the occasion
who represent his few remaining peers

They crowd around. His smile is vague — uncertain
odd names and faces drift like flotsam in the flow
of you-remember-George type introductions
He shakes old hands and puts on a fair show

But who they are and why they’re here escapes him
best bib and tuckers on they nod and bow
towards him where he sits as head of table
yet they’ve hardly one white hair between them now

Then came speeches and a touching presentation
a bit of dancing, too, for those inclined to try
a geriatric waltz and take the risk of falling
lost in the past they drift to tunes-gone-by

At last it’s over. A slow trail towards the exit
a trade in puzzled glances and goodbyes
the carers sheepdog-sharp attend their charges
do buttons up, trot out well-meaning lies

We take Dad home. He’s fretful — keeps on asking
‘Who were they all and why was Mam not there?’
We tuck him in, not answering the question
and leave the light still burning on the stair