Shoulder Pads

He used to block out the light in the hall

when he came home from the night shift.

Now he’s a shadow leaned up on the wall

waiting for the weather to shift.

I hold up his coat, the heavy wool gray,

and guide his hand into the sleeve.

His shoulders are narrow, they’re wasting away,

leaving a shape that I cannot believe.

The zipper gets stuck on a bit of the cord.

I fumble and tug while he stands there so still.

He’s a small, quiet man I can barely afford

to see through the lens of a weakening will.