For Louise and Tom
The old man in a shimmy, his arms
blotched in bruises, inches barefoot
down the hall, his head ticking
in the deep stoop:
the orderly, slowed behind,
too many tasks ahead, swoops
the old man up in his arms,
and the little old man flies,
astonished as a stricken bird:
at the radial desk, centralizing
the wings, the nurses look on
the bright side not to see too much.
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