Point B

He wanders,
his back a half crouch,
a misshapen Groucho Marx,
yet no comedy afoot. 

His crown balding
above dull catatonic eyes;
a twisted mouth betrays
little in its waxen domain.

His wardrobe 
ill-fitting and stained;
his journey unfocused
regardless of his intent.

Point A seldom leads to Point B.

They all know him
at the neighborhood stores.
They've chased him 
out of the downtown bars.

He's broken bread 
and broken bones throughout
the neighborhood they call home,
and they see him wander about each day,
confused, behaving erratically
not realizing it wasn't always
this way and that once upon a time,
he lived with his children and 
worked full time and had a life 
he truly loved and a wife that loved 
him so and in what felt like a flash,
it was taken away and no matter what 
anyone did, it couldn't change a thing.

It wouldn't change a thing.

He once ran
twenty or more miles each day,
now he shuffles walker in hand,
too often he falls or 
sees people where they are not
and knows emergency personnel 
far too well.

He tells lies
and says that he's safe.
He steals things
and says he did not. 

All dignity is far flung, removed;
his options sliver with each day.
He's slipping, slipping, stubbornly
insistent that his sky is still blue,
even as he is further damned 
by its gray.

But I know him.
I know who he was;
what he did and 
what mattered
to him. 

Point A will never lead to Point B again. 

I just want 
a safe home for him.