I recall it as the day he ran away –
he’d rode into the City on a bus
and shat his pants, then lost his
nerve and couldn’t recollect to
where he’d meant to go or why
he was upon a metro bus alone
Without a fare it wouldn’t take
him to his Rosebud home in Vic
for sure, ending up at Central
Station Sydney where his recent
memories just didn’t fit the least
bit comfortably with all of this
A phone call redefined his mute
distress – a bracelet on his wrist
contained our number, thus it was
we could express concerns for his
return; we met his bus beside
the age-care home bemused
His smile was real indeed, smell
a little rank, it was relief enough:
the driver shrugged off our profuse
apologies for Dad – hey, he said,
no problems – though I’m glad
I wasn’t sitting in his pants.
© 9 February 2012, I. D. Carswell
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