Dinner Time

At 98 his life winds down,
distilled to a sterile room
with a view of years of regrets
and dashed hopes.
He rarely sees his son
and no friends are left to visit.
Others here have no memories at all,
he sees them at meal times,
child like and innocent they smile
and nod unaware of identity
or the sea-change around them.
The plot, the plot is full of holes,
the climax weak or non-existent.
He clenches his gnarled old hands,
arthritic knuckles dappled by his liver
and takes the stage for one more performance.

Survivor poem – Trigger 30 – poet's choice