tagNon-Erotic PoetryVisiting hour

Visiting hour


A yellowed peak of hair against the pile
of pillows his thin frame lies propped against,
half-open mouth, his lower dentures out

to take the hurt away, eyes closed he lies
while I sit watching as he floats from sleep
to shallow sleep, and stirs; I listen to

his breathing sink away and come again
as one old, bony hand upon the sheets,
not consciously directed, slowly moves

in a weak grip that serves no purpose, run
by random signals somewhere in a brain
too tired to let him eat, or drink, or speak -

just that, the noise the central heating makes
and voices down the corridor, and then
the far-off sound of freedom from a car.

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bydemure101© 3 comments/ 2138 views/ 2 favorites

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