Alzheimer's

His house is made of crumbling slats
    of rotted knotted oak
  peeling paint
and weakened joints.

  The wind blows unfettered
through unshuttered apertures
   dragging fresh sunlight in
      and memories away.

Even on the clearest days
       he visits the front porch
    less and less often.

        He prefers to explore
    those rooms further in
where tide and time have yet to reach.         Sometimes
                                     he might be gone for a week.

And one day, too soon
    (not soon enough)
  his ramshackle dwelling will collapse
      tumbling six feet down
          abandoned at last.