Eight days before christmas
and his knees were aching worse than ever,
bitter winds had never done them any good,
nor had the weather's indecisiveness.

Eight days before christmas
and he ate in silence at dinner.
Two bowls of pumpkin soup.
The ladies at his table ignored him.
He fell momentarily asleep in his chair,
and when woken up to take his pills,
realised he'd been left sitting alone again.

Eight days before christmas
and he wasn't sure anymore
of what he was supposed to do.
He'd tried to ask people walking past,
but they either hurried off
or sent him in the direction of his room
where he had nothing to do
but sit and think
and be so aware of his solitude.

Eight days before christmas
and the nurse asked what she could do for him.
He smiled and with a worn and wrinkled finger
Pretended to slice open his throat.
She thought he was joking.

Eight days before christmas
and he ascended the stairs to the second floor.
He found an empty room,
and entered, closing the door behind him.

Eight days before christmas
he approached the window
and with shaking hands undid the clasp.

Eight days before christmas
he pushed the window as far open as he could,
he stepped out on to the ledge
and sat there for a while
wishing he could find the guts to jump.

Eight days before christmas
he hoped like hell he would not see
his 87th christmas eve.