Home for the Aged
Sharp as a trumpet blast,
the April sun
jump-starts the wintry men
to bleary, twitchy motion.
Awkwardly they follow
their sallow, long-nailed fingers
out into the open air,
walk meticulously around the block
as if rehearsing a newly-written play,
memory opening like a crocus.
Published in Green’s Magazine, (Canada) XXIII, No. 3 1995