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Old Man at Bedtime (re-posted)

by Bruce W Niedt

At ten-thirty he sits at the edge of his bed
and swallows the last pills of the day,
then draws water from a straw
stuck in his favorite cup.
He places it on the night table, 
then pulls two tissues from a box,
folding them in neat triangles
and tucking them into his pajama
shirt pocket (always blue plaid).
He removes his glasses, folds them,
and places them next to the cup.
His rosary beads lie on the bed
like a cross in a pile of beans,
but he has placed them exactly
two inches below the left corner 
of his pillow, as he does every night.
 
You have to have a ritual
when you get old, he explains.  
Otherwise you lose your place,
become confused, unmoored,
adrift in the mystery of your own house.
 
He turns off the light, reclines 
on his right side, clutching the beads,
and begins with a prayer
modified from childhood
and covering all possibilities:
that he will wake again tomorrow
and begin his well-mapped routine
or not.

02/01/2009

Author's Note: First published in Thick with Conviction, October 2008 - editors' Best of Issue award.

Posted on 02/01/2009
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/01/09 at 09:08 PM

This reads like the ending of a really strong, heartbreaking novel. It's easily my favorite of these three you've run.

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