the old client

the house smells
of alcohol and
medicine, ashes,
dishes in the sink,
from last night,
last week?
brown bottled pills
dot the shelves,
line up like
stout soldiers
awaiting their orders.
and he sits in his
formed chair,
waiting, but not
for me, he has
forgotten about
the work, but he
smiles and reaches
back as far as
he can, to try
and remember, but
he can't and says,
my shoulder hurts,
i think i did it
playing golf and
his stare follows
the mailman's truck
as it rolls slowly
through the snow
beyond the window.