He’s moved his body crossways in the bed.
His bony legs are thrust between the bars.
His knees are scored with crusted scabs and scars,
But time has not effaced his striking head.
His urine soaks his undershirt; the sheet
Beneath him’s drenched. He will be hard to shift.
I roll him on his side and slowly lift
The saturated bedding. No small feat.
I’ve thought of killing him and then myself;
No chandelier in here would hold my weight.
And so I guess that I shall have to wait
Until his old age kills me. Though I laugh,
I’ve learned a thing that cannot be denied:
One does not need nails to be crucified.
