I knew you not,
you, who time forgot,
while society denied
your opportunity to be
those things you might have been.
Much easier to have you hid away
and brought out on a rainy day
one Autumn, much like this:
My father brought me to the place
where you were kept.
“Wait here in the car” he said, and
(me, expecting you to come with him)
returned alone.
And then your stooping image
was gently led
into our field of view
along a covered walkway.
We sat and watched, as at some zoo
and I, unprepared,
had not the slightest notion
what to do, or say.
And nor I think did he.
And all too soon you’d
reached the end,
and soon your life.
But I recognised you.
And looking back,
I contemplate the fear
that held me in that moment,
wondering what might have been:
had I alighted from the car
and walked across
and touched your arm
and looked into those eyes
that could not see.
I doubt you would have
recognised me,
despite our shared craving
of them, that turned their backs
and to this day
smile awkward smiles
and look the other way.
And I regret my reticence.
