His fingers tampered with the remote control,
Evading the humiliation of calling for aid.
Each pressed button twinged his fragile thumb,
Paining him to drop the accursed item.
He did not bother to reach for it again,
But instead, he wipes his wrinkled brow,
And cleans his billowed glasses.
Around him stood a hodgepodge of memorabilia,
Relics from the days when he could run,
Where no one showed up everyday to tend to him
There were no oppressive rules to follow.
Even though his body grew weak,
Corruption never touched his mind.
He nudged his wheelchair over to the window.
He hears outside life swirling. Hushed conversations.
An abrasive laugh and blaring horn from traffic brings him back to the moment.
He was among them before he was ill.