Waiting For The Night

His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent 
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.

The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
mind more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.

Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into the traffic.