the old man
in 103
wrecks silence,
too old
for even the simple
necessities:
running a bath,
suffering
five steep
steps
down
to a lobby floor -
his windows slowly blacken
like his lungs,
his voice cracks
as he cries
in the eleventh
hour:
help!
- his cane
striking
striking
the door -
help!
and help comes,
opens the door
to the wave of stench,
vomit,
shit,
cigarettes
blended in mothballs
and alchohol,
he shrieks:
help!
with his cane
clenched in one hand,
eyes rolled back
like a baby's,
and all but ash
in a cigarette butt
still tweazed
in the other.
feces is speckled
down his leg,
spread on the carpet,
Coltrane plays
smothered in an a.m. station,
while he's reaching out
for help,
still calling,
still sprawling,
so I take his arms
under mine,
hold him,
lift him,
let him stand once more
to regain his dignity,
to find relief . . .
and he doesn't thank me.
he tells me to go.
as he slams his door
I shuffle down
the hall, down
the five steps
to the bathroom,
where I vomit,
and weep,
and don't know
why.