Sundowning

The lion knows not what is.

He ignores all smooth, familiar places;
appears immune to any routine that
dares enter his norm of confusion.

Sleep bullies him awake each night;
prompts everyday risk taking which
threatens existing well-being.

A life-long athlete, he now
prefers bed over motion; shows
no interest in food or friendship.

Wandering is embraced as ally;
care givers are tagged suspicious
and avoided as much as possible.

It’s year three of a dementia
that has him missing in action
though bodily here.

Still she shows each a.m.
to aid with the basics
of lengthy, clueless days.

Depression has nailed her numb
which triggers raging rants that
often isolates much-needed support.

Music, she discovered by chance,
is the one therapy able to dance
up token notes of recall.

An aide lends a bruised iPod;
shares sites and passwords to
select, oldie genres.

She streams the melodies outward
as shadows decimate light and poke
at the monsters under his bed.

She wraps rhythmic fingers round
his shrinking wrist; taps the beat
into his ever weakening pulse.

Strangely this seems to revive them both;
sparks the punch-drunk hope that he is
here, in this moment, no matter that

The lion knows not anymore what is.