That poor man

 

My colleagues only spoke of their annoyance with you

I was told that you were pretty cheeky

(To say the least)

 When you were elevated

Grandiosity at its best

Somewhat sleazy

Bragging

And unable to interrupt

 

The first time I met you—in the hospital

I couldn’t help but find you so damn likable

You socialised with all the other patients

You just wanted to be everyone’s friend

 

Talking non-stop

 About your love for Buddhism

Music

Singing

And Dancing

Your life was the party

And we were all invited

 

The next time I met you

Things had changed

After living in a heightened state almost constantly

The medical team decided that you were not safe

And you needed to come down

 

It wasn’t easy

Nothing seemed to work

So you got drugged up to the eyeballs

 

I came to meet you at the hospital

To drive you to your home

The ward nurse collected your things

While you practically dragged your guitar— on the floor

Behind your shuffling feet

As you didn’t have the energy to carry it

 

‘How are you doing Frank?’

I asked you.

‘Pretty terribly’

 You replied honestly

But you didn’t need to answer— really

Your struggle

Was written all over your face

 

We drove to your house

A quiet journey

‘Wanna play me something on the guitar?’

I asked you

‘Not really’ you responded

With as much zest as a deflated balloon

 

We entered your house

Your mind must have been foggy

Because you lost your key

The minute after we walked in

 

A dump of an apartment

But with lots of photos

New and old

Of children and grandchildren

 

No fridge

Stolen— for the second time— while you were in hospital

Peeling paint decorated a rotting balcony

Not safe enough to stand on

With the outlook of all the other apartments

Mirroring yours

In their digraceful condition

 

 

I tried to stay positive for Frank

‘What do you think you’ll do tonight?’

I asked you brightly

‘I’ll just call my family’

Frank responded flatly

 

‘What about food tonight?’

I asked—concerned

‘I’ll get some’

Frank responded—dimly

 

I couldn’t fathom how Frank —could walk down the stairs

Given how sedated he was

Or how he could store food— in the tough Australian summer heat

Without a fridge

 

‘Want me to go to the shops with you now?’

I asked

‘No thanks’ Frank answered politely

‘I’ll be okay’

 

Frank said he just wanted to call his family

And so— he began to slowly dial the numbers

One by one 

On his brown baker light phone

There was no answer

 

‘Sure you are gonna be okay on your own tonight Frank?’

I queried

I wanted to help— but felt stuck in how I could

 

‘I’ll be okay’— he replied

 Forcing a weak smile through his tired face

 

I prayed that in time

That Frank's treating team would find a way

For Frank to have some balance

Between mania and lifelesness

So he could exist in a world

Where he could experience the highs and lows

With some equalibrium

 

Frank didn’t want or need pity

But at that moment in time

My heart broke for him 

And I couldn’t help but think

‘That poor man’