Bruce Lee in a Nursing Home
by Jon Wesick
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Had he not died young
it would have come to this.
His once muscular
body now stooped and slack.
A hundred thousand hours
of hard, physical training count
for nothing. Now it takes fifteen minutes
to struggle to the bathroom
and he must pull a cord
to summon the Filipina
who will help him off the toilet
and dress him in a clean diaper.
Where once he defeated a dozen attackers with feet and fists
he’s now prisoner of the activity director’s patronizing voice.
Chopsticks slip from trembling fingers.
He frowns at the boiled beets on his plate
while daytime TV fills the room with inane chatter
and glum wheelchairs park in the halls.
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