Remembering An Old English Teacher

i look at him
he has only one tooth left and his face is like a tin roof
corrugated with too much heat and pressure
i do not blame it with the english grammar that he once taught
us with rigidity,
his degeneration or
degradation has something to do
with the way the walls around him
kepping him away
from the glow of the world and the glitter of everything that he is
supposed to own and
behold,
i look at him
his running nose cannot be stopped by any handkerchief
that i gifted him on his
78th birthday, he does not want to use any gift, he does not want
to remember the good old days,
he wishes a happy death he said this on the nth time
i detest this kind of
unwanted endings, but i look at him again, this time i utter
empathy
what can i give this old man so i can repay him what he had given
when words were so hard to understand
so harder to use with facility?

i look at him again
his eyes are tired wanting to get eternal sleep
his hands are shaking like a face refusing everything
turning clockwise and counterclockwise

he wants to die but he just cannot
i look at him and now i am willing to give him all my fears.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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