The Forgotten Life

On Saturday morning
he steps out
and doesn’t bother
closing the door.

He walks across baked pavement,
down the foot-packed path
and onto sand
barely hot enough
to make him quick-step
for lengths of shadow.

He finds a cool spot
beneath the arm
of a lone eucalyptus.

From there
he watches young bodies
pound waves
until they concede
to sea’s permanence.

He studies
tight skin, tanned
arms and thighs,
muscular backs
lifting against the tide.

He knows
that he was one of them
once, not long ago.

Through the open door
his nurse hurries
across the road
down to the beach
where she smiles
and touches him
in the worst way,
the precise way you touch someone
who has already died.