On a Friend’s Illness

Gordon could have been a Hobbit

In some other incarnation.

Instead, he was a young man,

Like us, finding his way through

Early life.

He might, though, have been a hobbit

Due to his warm nature

And short stature

And slight attraction to excesses of adventure.

And like the hobbits,

He was the most agreeable company

Good for stories,

Both offered and received.

Good for pipes, smoked inside

Cheery clouds.

Pipes suspended beneath

His dark, luxurious mustache.

Many friendships arose

And hovered about him

Like those smoky clouds.

His humor lightened

Most moments,

Most spirits,

Even those despondent.

He was quick and agile

Despite a rounded contour;

Always fierce to compete.

Now that vital time

Has passed and Gordon

Resides in a home for

Memory impaired patients

Slumped in wheelchairs,

Drooling and staring blankly.

He does not stare most of the time,

Only occasionally.

He does not like the empty room,

A slot for one soul today,

And perhaps another tomorrow,

Devoid of photos, or books,

Or anything from living.

Too few stop by.

Too little happens.

Gordon is disappearing.

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