The professor has died three times now.
After the first death, he was taught to move his head.
After the second, he learned how to sit up.
After the third, they even got him on his feet,
propped up by a sturdy, chubby nanny:
Let’s take a little walk, shall we, professor?
Severe brain damage following the accident
and yet—will wonders never cease—he’s come so far:
left right, light dark, tree grass, hurt eat.
Two plus two, professor?
Two, says the professor.
At least he’s getting warm.
Hurt, grass, sit, bench.
But at the garden’s edge, that old bird,
neither pink nor cheery,
chased away three times now,
his real nanny. Or so she says—who knows?
He wants to go to her. Another tantrum.
What a shame. This time he came so close.