Overnight Stay

Now he has thoughts, that to him have come late
of never making his three score and ten of years:
he goes in hobbles to his window and looks through,
turning the louvers with a pull of chain.
From this fourth-floor view in the meat shop
he sees how early winter's winds at play
twist and release the taller trees, and then
twist and release again, throwing smaller limbs
to harrass old gardeners in their tiny homes
with chores to do for which their strength has gone.
Some traffic hustles by, intent on scenes
narrowed to the sweep of wiper blades.
    Turning, he sees the space his neighbor will refill,
sleeping the sleep of poison in the blood.
He hasn't seen him yet, only heard his voice,
his coughing, and the speech of nurse and wife.
It is an old man's voice, and an old wife's.
Shoes stand in a corner, empty and yet erect, expecting,
like working dogs, the master's feet to approach,
then walk with them into the rain to work.
Perhaps he will. Or has he reached the point
where he'll be glad to shuffle, or ride the proffered chair?
While the old wife gathers the shoes by their silent tongues
and carries them down the corridor, thinking
which of her sons might like to have them next.