Life at the care home

They sat hugging the late afternoon, 
tumbling
as minutes must, into the cramped corners 
of the day. 

Five started a game, only four remained, 
twelve tiles placed, just three words made, 
two hours had passed, 
and they stared
on, out, into a hollowing centre. 

There, behind, in white shirt, black tie
a man shoots a tv with a remote control 
trying to find a path through 
mouthing as he did so 
names of people he once knew

And they say he had travelled, seen the world,
dodged bullets, most of it untold, and that he was
a mover, 
a glider, across every town's floors,
and that every lass turned their head
for his hips, his lips, his picture flick's kiss. 

Then, 
such clatter, 
two trolleys bone-shake the room,
brimmed cups tip tea to saucers
soggy biscuits elbow out 
tempting eyes
like Sunday morning's bingo prize. 

Outside, day heaved shadows through windows,
like mainsails folding, 
succumbing to an evening drift, which
still hung as dust in half-drawn curtains. 

Visitors came, forced bowed heads to rise, and
one son unwrapped a gift for mum, who 
picked at cellotaped edges, trying not to tear

And there - a box, a musical box,  
hiding within, a ballerina once lost 

'for you...yes', he nods. 

Her mind ignites, she sips the thaw
the key released, she sips some more, 
and she stretches up on through the room
pirouettes to every wall
spins up stairs, tip taps the hall
unpicks the locks, where souls still cling 
touching the immeasurable of everything 

she runs and leaps 
till nothing's left, 
until 
the ticks 
they click 
and slow  
and stiffening there
she bends and stops. 

               *

Now all’s quiet with the music gone
just as they were with the music gone

Young dancer holds so still, as though she never moved 
as though she never could.