We should’ve started earlier—
            the retired motorcycle stuntman
                       with quickening dementia says this

out of the blue, in the French film,
            before he collapses in the nursing home
                       hallway, the staff fervently conscientious

and hopelessly behind, much like when I’d go
            to see my mom, automatic doors opening
                       their ethereal gates, the hush of angels

in mint green scrubs, whispered questions
            at the corner table with nobody there
                       to answer. If we could go back, once

we’ve glimpsed the brick wall, knowing
            there’ll be no last-minute leap across:
                       I suppose that’s what he means by we,

in what turn out to be his final words,
            still thinking, as any one of us might,
                       how to manage differently, even

as dates begin to disappear
            from the calendar, and traffic outside
                       blurs, and evening pulls up the blanket.