by Pavel Chichikov
A twice-bent window made of glass
The old man can't sit up and so he shatters
Splinters in a two-wheeled chair
No one props him up as if he mattered
Philip, soul, they let you sag
Dystrophic tone could not support your frame
Parkinson's is what you had
I knew your first but not your second name
Your living form was broken
Which nothing on this Earth assembles ever
Or puzzles into one –
What death has shattered who can put together?
Where did you go?
Who beyond a final memory can understand?
The stroking of a little dog
Which dumb in answer licked your breaking hand
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
