Hands tremble with the spoon.

The soup is irritatingly liquid,

More than usual.

Lips shake and hot

Breath wisps out the bottom

As blood veins and white pupils

Drift around a flowered room.

He’s sick. He’s old. He can’t come to terms.

White tufts plug up ears

And skin drips from the neck like dough.

They provided white sneakers

Ribbed in blue that

Are never worn inside.

The soup is too hot.

Eyes close and play films

Void of sloth.

Standing with a straight back

Dancing arm and arm

Steady forks full of

Warm chocolate 

And knives of silver plated

In youth.

Hot breath slows.

Runs cold.

It’s his time.

Never old again.