His hair is spruced up
his face clear,
glowing-
'preserved like a jar of pickles'
as Auntie Vea puts it.
Grandma puts on papa's bib
& feeds him chicken
& rice spoon by spoon. He
occasionally grunts in approval.
'He's found his pasture', Nana says
During lunch, a short hunched-back elderly lady
approaches from behind me/
grasping/ clutching her arms tightly.
She shakes uncontrollably. 'I'm cold. I'm cold', she says
in the herma sealed & temperature controlled room
A nurse comments positively on pappa's new hairstyle
'Terry, that's the most trendy haircut you've ever had!'
He replies cynically, but honestly-
'They should have cut my throat'.
Later, immobile in his bed- paralysed from the neck down,
he sings wild bursts of songs from World War 2
fed by the unloosening of memories & lashings of rum.