Fred

The man next door has lost his mind.
I see him every day in his back yard
Walking slowly around his house
And looking for it upon the ground
As if it was a dropped quarter.

He does not recall me, or my name
Even though we have lived as neighbors
For over twenty years.
He does not realize that his mind is merely mislaid
Upon the mantle of his life,
Right next to his last moment of lucidity,
And behind his most comforting years.

When I was a child, his wife saved me
From certain, inescapable doom
By convincing me she did not have a stamp
That I could place upon the letter to my parents
Explaining, in my limited vocabulary,
My grievances that made me want to run away.

Instead, she offered me hot cocoa
And took my rucksack from me,
And gave me a cushion on her sofa
Where I could rest and share my troubles with her.
After we spent the afternoon in earnest conversation
Interspersed with tears and reassurances,
I forgot about the stamp, and my rucksack,
And made my way home, unburdened.

And again she is the caretaker –
Now looking after her husband.
With gentle discipline, as she would with a child;
Reminding him to come inside from his ceaseless searching
For his lost mind; something, which to others,
Might strongly resemble a quarter.