Ode to Mr. S.

eighty year old white male,
chief complaint vague.
maybe it is simply
old age,
weariness,
something doctors
will name more fully
later,
perhaps.
past medical history
significant for
everything
and nothing.
diagnoses now mean
as much
as talk of cures
ground from
mortar and pestle;
small mercies encased in
glass and metal
syringes.
in those bleak blue rooms
antiseptic curtains drawn
against the day,
silence stirs once more,
history comes unbidden:
can you tell me who I am?
i can not remember.
am i having a good day?
i can no longer tell.
what is happening to me?
i no longer know.

--For Mr. S. and others I have taken care of like him.