the fallen man

there is an orange red
iodine drool on his chin
his lips,
across his shirt.
he's leaning on the front
stoop, the bare concrete steps,
holding his knee
where his tube socks
rise tightly over the blue
roped veins.
his daughter, something
from the golden age,
right off the set
of whatever happened
to baby jane,
says, can you help us
get him in.
he needs to go upstairs.
her head is wrapped in a peacock
blue scarf,
her robe is open,
showing her pale skin,
a rash.
you turn away, not so much
from the smell, but you don't
want this memory etched
into your mind.
with the help of a passing
neighbor, everyone
tries to lift the old man.
but to no avail.
his blue eyes wander
fearfully, his white hair
are feathers under his soiled
cap.
someone calls 911.
a team of men come, they
put him on a stretcher and
drive him off.
his daughter, hand over mouth
keeps saying,
what now, what now.
her arms out stretched
to hot july sun.