Old man.

Old man, you once pushed me;
now I push you.
Gazing into my pram face,
the fear of life;
staring at the back of your
wool-enveloped head,
the fear of death.

The dementia in your mind makes you infant-like;
smiling at whatever wonder it is you see.
The blanket across your knees
is like the snug clothing of baby.

I have fear, father.
I have fear.
I sometimes talk to you
and it seems you sometimes answer back

but only through the prison window of your eyes,
behind which an innocent man
pores through endless albums of memories.