This is another poem in the collection which is slowly accruing. The poems in the collection are about my brother. He was a marine and national standard tri-athlete before he contracted Multiple Sclerosis, and he is bearing his situation with stoicism for the most part. I am finding it harder.
One vulnerable man – the veteran perhaps,
a cluttered flat, black sacks of crap –
old papers, soiled pants, sweet wrappers.
Three neighbours, like Furies, sitting
on the stained sofa, pecking and fighting,
filching whatever they can.
Now whisk in his “carers”, who do not care –
who come at odd times, and ask him what
he needs and, when he tells them that he’s fine,
pencil a quick note in his file, smile and
leave, trailing righteousness as such men do.
Finally: weigh out the forces of life, of death,
season the mix with a handful of dust;
pour it slowly into an earthen pot, and stew.