‘My next move after this is going to be the nursing home,’
He tells the sympathetic woman on her morning walk. But….
The skip says more.
Late master of his house to mere border in his son’s.
From large house to one room in town. Convenient perhaps
But first step down.
For years his glass has gulled him with still-youthful looks
Though termite age has mined below deceptive intact surfaces
Now giving way.
The skip gulps independence, memories, almost his manhood.
Wiping dreams, the decades thriftless spent, the essence of himself.
Mortality gains focus.