A gray-haired guy slumps in his wheel chair
withered lifeless arms in his lap-
He pulls himself around with his good leg
going in circles, he's going no where.
But he's not the one screaming for help-

A woman with a walker bellows
at the top of her lungs until nurses get there
and she admits she doesn't think anything is wrong:
Just wanted some attention.
With a groan she's alone again
sauntering past your room
to try this plot again.

Oblivious, you're in bed with eyes cast skyward
blocked by a dreary water-stained ceiling-
Your blue eyes dull, like so many of your features:
gray hair, gray stubble, and faded bedsheets
a slightly bluer shade of gray-
rising a bit each time you breath in
falling as you breath out and mutter a greeting.

You call me Ben, but I am not Ben,
and I begin wondering who he could be:
A school mate from the first grade?
Or a fellow soldier in the Korean war?
What memories have stayed with you:
Do the ghosts of childhood haunt you with laughter?
Or do the nightmares of the past
linger with you now, under the guise of Alzheimer's.