not yet spring        and a cold wind blows through him to the bones

words of elderly and dying residents of the hospice        stay with him

voices of broken men        living on the streets        echo in him

he listens to their fragmented sentences        trying to catch the cadence

entering their dementia and drunken conversations

the weight of their years in his body       

he breathes in the sickness        and on bleak nights        sinks into their grief

like a fellow traveller        he shuffles        heavy-footed

he knows there will be long years       finding his way back to himself

sleepless nights       and waking dreams that may not be his own

he has no immunity to their troubles       holds their charged speech

in memory       and then sifts through his notes

scripting words and actions for the stage