by Corey Mesler

In his bedclothes and robe
he felt even smaller. His thin
ankles stuck out beneath
the hem. And, for a man who
once dressed like Beau
Brummell, it was a rank
indignity. His world, which
had been wide and brightly
colored, had shrunk to a
bed, a chair, a few books.
Sometimes he returned his
food without comment.
He tried to make the nurses.
“I used to hang with the
Stones,” he’d say. “I used to
be greater than Greil Marcus,
Lester Bangs and Marcel Proust.”
The nurses tittered. “I used
to hang with the Rolling
Stones,” they sang down the
corridor, moving on to the next
room, and the next expiring genius.

Photo by Mayur Deshpande on Unsplash