He covers merely skin and bone
With clothes that look not like his own
Reflects into the kitchen pane
In which he ducked an early stone

The energy drained from his brain
Made memories and sleep the same
Gran took care of brush and sock
As morphine took care of the pain

He never was a man of talk
In silence he got back to walk
The streets recovered rather slow
But he prevailed and turned the clock

I know that no one wants to know
I have to ask the question, though
Can frailty stand another blow?
I have to ask the question