Capitulation

Though he can no longer dress himself this birthday

he can still swallow the 80 proof Dewar’s

and purse his lips at the bite, like he used to.

Then, he would be sitting poolside, his pale

linen pants reflected in her wide Diors,

fondling the dog’s creamy ears, the record player

turning out Rudy Vallee or Tommy Dorsey

maybe doffing his brimmed hat to

slide back his hair with his palm, all the time

tapping his pointed buck to the pulse,

guests murmuring, laughing off beat.

Now, a glitch in his brain

has left him crumpled on one side, still sapient

but with his former elegance extinguished by the gaudy patterned

robe he wears emblazoned with logos of a sport's team

he doesn’t recognize. Someone has draped it

over his shoulders like a Medieval caparison, allowing

its slack to catch in the metal wheels which scratch the linoleum

leading everywhere and nowhere, here.

Futile to protest, he lifts his arm and lets the cool sharp

tincture slide between his teeth and warm his throat,

grateful for the weight of the glass and its smuggled contents

and celebrates another year.

This poem was written to a “wordle” prompt on a poetry website called “Big Tent Poetry” found here:  http://bigtentpoetry.org/

The words provided in the prompt were:  capitulate, proof, purse, fondle, doff, glitch, crumple, sapient, caparison, pattern, futile, tincture.  I confess I had to look up the meaning of a few of these words.