He crawls up the back stairs, his frame
tilting, wobbly like his walker.
I undo the deadbolt to find him gasping—
irises swallowed by methadone.

He asks me to change
his bandage and I agree
because he lives below me,
because his woman skipped town,
because somehow I feel beholden.

We bumble down to the kitchen
and I am faint from the familiar
acrid stench. He crouches down
and I begin my sombre handicraft,

pick at the edges stuck to the rim
of the suture. We wince— scalp
puckers, hairs tug- and it’s off,
centre clotted with scabs,
soiling the Formica.

I stare at two holes in his head,
greenish, gummy like glue.
I try not to let disgust ooze
into my voice when I tell him
I’m almost through.

I seal the gunk under gauze.
He asks me if I’ve hidden them from view.
Yes, yes, you can’t see a thing!
I sew on a smile, say I’ve got work to do,

wait till I’m upstairs to scrub my hands,
careful, post-op manoeuvres.
I stare at the mirror, pixilated.
I think about my father, wonder
about the stranger dressing his wounds.