Anthony is one of the few who can walk.
He knows who he was –
a guitarist and a song writer.
And a do-it-yourself lutherer –
thirty years ago he hammered up
his first instrument, an electric,
from plyboard and wire.
‘Devised my own pick-ups,
back then.’
There were no Top Tens, but success enough –
to be alone.
Every day he says Hello
politely, circumspectly; searching.
‘I’m Anthony,’ he adds,
as if we’ve only met.
In fact, we’ve spoken
each and every day
for half a year.
(I introduce myself. I act…
a first encounter.)
Sometimes he seems to know
his feelings are at stake,
but which feelings?
He’ll say, ‘Of course,
of course you are,’
but there’s no memory there.
I don’t believe. I don’t believe there is
any memory there.
We talk – the Patient, Anthony and I –
until lights out. A nurse calls time.
‘I was only admitted yesterday,’ he says to me.
‘I wonder – would you mind? – guiding me? –
back to my bay?’