I can (do you?) remember those creaking doors

In that comedy film of Monsieur Hulot´s Holiday

Through which a waiter wandered to serve poor lost souls

Seated at tables sparse and bare.

Who is it who now comes into

this un-living-room for the unloved

In our half way house to death?

Can it be a nurse to check my pulse, wipe my brow and clean my soiled commode?

But no, she smiles, sits beside me, shows photographs,

Mostly faded black and white, and tries to jump-start a conversation

By recalling memories that are no longer mine.

Jack and Jill who climbed a hill,

Peter and Paul who perhaps robbed each other,

Two Elizabeths who sat on thrones in ages far apart

Saucy Sue, Cantankerous Kate; Tom, Dick and Harry

The supposed persona of a past existence which better stays that way

As histories of times gone by and people now to me unknown.

Soon those doors will swing to let me through

To make my fractured way to a mausoleum of forgotten dreams

And I may pass to find the answers to

All this woman´s questions, laughs and tears.