by John Stocks
A hospital has constructed a bus stop on its grounds
to help find dementia patients who have wandered away.
They found him bewildered at the bus stop
His head filled with poetry
Waiting for a bus that would never arrive.
In a fog of dislocation
And a blow from the North that chilled his bones
Bound in a nutshell of sorrows
A long way from home.
(Fragments falling into mind
Remnants from kindlier times)
Two hours he waited, or a hundred years
With all his memories locked
It was impossible to recapture her
All the dreams that they had shared
The delicate warmth of all-sustaining love.
Dimly he recalled how he had been cherished
A mother’s ebullient son
A distant glimpse of society within
And then of course a lover
Somewhere beyond the darkness, there had been a life.
Why am I here?
Will they come for me soon?
He saw the shelter light
Flicker and die
Felt the ghastly silence.
When will they come?
Copyright © 2009 by John Stocks
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