The Man He Was (Poetry)

For HKH

They have no inkling of the man he was
to those who shunt his tired bones
from ward to ward
he’s just a name, a number
yet another case
and none would guess the way
he was before
all of this

A man of skill
who had a certain expertise
a specialist commanding some respect
but old age and illness robbed him
of his capability
and left this shell which lingers
cruelly wrecked

He’s shrunk away — the man he was
is lost inside
an echo of himself they scarcely hear
too uninvolved and distant
though they bustle near
enough to process him
according to their frequently
lacksadaisical routine

Few bother to engage
perhaps assuming he’s already
reached that senseless stage
of not caring
one way or the other
should they check
and find a glimmer of his former self
would it change anything?
perhaps even evoke
a rush of empathy
for this once-chatty but grown silent
poor old bloke
who’s been a son
a brother
a husband
and a father
an engineer and traveller abroad ...
all that and more

Now he takes up a bed
inhabits a space
two arms, two legs
hands, feet — a face
all worn out — but look hard
and you’ll find a trace
of the man he was
he’s still in there
somewhere