At first, it was only a handrail beside the shower,
chrome, strong, cold, a kindness, they say,
bolted firmly to the wall, necessary,
and then a second rail, a third, and a door
that will not lock now, must not lock, just in case,
to be opened only by other hands that are not his own,
that wash what he once called private,
and they say step up, stand, lift for me,
and they say good, you are almost there,
until almost becomes the whole damn narrowed world;
and somewhere in time a young boy is lying
in a shallow tin bath ninety years gone,
soaped warm by someone enormous, loving, in charge,
and splashing and playing and laughing,
but now he has a plastic bracelet,
and a spoon raised slowly to the mouth of the man
who taught his children how to live,
while each week another bar goes quietly up:
the frame, the chair, the bed with sides like a cot,
the cup with its lid, the roster on the fridge,
and case notes about a life read out by strangers,
and he sits now, is sat, is turned, is wheeled
to the window, still entirely here, still looking,
inside-out, at weather he is no longer permitted to enter.

 

2/8/2026