NAUSICAA & ODYSSEUS

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A hurricane buried in a paint can blew him
back to he gets bathed every morning,
a fresh johnny for modesty
draping what’s left of his manhood
like the still gallant prow
of a sunken ship. He ended the war
a private not a general, help
his one command with the call button
on the long-term wing. You’re not impressed
so much as overwhelmed, routine
as your hands all over him
with a sponge while not looking
away, semper fidelis
when you gently slap his face
with your father’s brand
of aftershave. He's in Room 206
though also 37, and 119, remarkable
in a ubiquitous way like a lotto pick
or a football play, the world replaced
by a fluorescent patch of hall, the years
by days, a thousand miles
from bed to chair, only numbers
both sly and epic.