He’s propped by three pillows

in a bed by the widow, talks to his toes

who’ve been deaf since his back

came off worst in an argument

with a car that didn’t stop for tea

at Joe’s café where a passer by

phoned for an ambulance.

He watches geese fly through fug

that blasts from chimney pots

hopes they’ll not get sucked into

the turbines of a Bowen which he hears

but doesn’t see: same old story.