The door is wide open, people moving in and out,
Stepping over the slanted linoleum floor with unconcious ease.
The door stays open when the people stop,
Letting the noises - cars, people, polka - to traffic instead.

My hand is halfway into the plastic jar of jerky,
When he calls out for another drink.
His voice is still strong, his words properly ordered.
His hands don't shake, and his legs are stable.

The door is closed now, warding against the winter air.
His hands shake, his voice is a disjointed whisper,
The cane taps, effortlessly skipping the slant,
As he takes his spot again, quietly signaling for a weaker drink.