National Poetry Month: Poem 2

He was wilted,
against the uncomfortable,
ridiculous teal chair.

Sitting crumpled and folded,
like the stained paisley shirt he wore.

Both lovingly worn and eroded by time and happy memories.

The wrinkles deep and earned, creasing around his mouth and in the fabric of his clothes.

Lost in the reverence of fading memories and days gone by.

His chapped and lonely lips, trembled remembering sweet, soft wrestling matches in the moonlight.

His delicate gnarled hands
traced his paper thin skin,
recalling their strength holding tools, weights, hands and of course hearts.

His bright weary eyes,
scanned the sterilized room,
wondering if there was anyone there to recognize.

Or more importantly if anyone there would realize he was still there, still alive, still him.

'Frank?', the young woman questioningly called into the waiting room.

Their eyes meeting, acknowledging, and sizing each other up,
beginning this awkward introductory dance.

His body slow but rising like the reborn phoenix,
her shoes squeaking as she hustled  to meet him, to help him, to learn his idiosyncrasies.

"Sorry, to keep you waiting", she said as she grabbed his weathered hand.

"I wasn't waiting, I was remembering", he said breath slightly exerted, gait fairly off, but steadily searching her face, waiting to see her reaction.

She smiled and it reached her eyes.

And he knew, he would be just fine here.

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