The old man looking down from a high window

on the memory care floor at children he’d forgot

were his, despite prompts that stirred the soup

of thought though nothing like a name or face

broke the surface before they said, as always,

“we’ll see you next week,” and yet the way the

son’s hands sank into pockets to fish for car keys

toggled a wire like the switch on a Lionel 00 train,

and he strained to find a latch where no latch

would be shouting, “GEORGE!  GEORGE!”

at the departing man below whose name

had always been Michael.

©Dana Hughes 6.19.19