Poem: A 95 Year Old Man Bleeding On The Side of The Road

A poem which happens to about exactly what its title says, no metaphor, no allusion, just a description of events

There was blood pouring from his eyes
on the side of the road. It started slowly,
and he wiped at it with his hanky. No
luck, no chance to stem the flow - it
very quickly started to flood his face.
And he looked up at me with a lost soul
stare, handing me the cloth as if a
younger hand might save the day.

I don’t know that I did. Well, I guess we
saved him on that day at least. A team
effort amongst strangers - and eventually
an ambulance arrived and he was taken
to hospital; I followed in his car - because
it was either that, or leave on the side
of the road where I had found him. Eyes
bleeding. Lost dog look. But I’ll never know

how much longer he had on the earth - or
how and why the blood started, and if
we managed to keep it at bay. But while
we worked on him, as amateur mechanics
beneath a very old car, he was graceful
and grateful and left his life in our hands.
I just can’t know if he was able to leave with
much more. Of if we gave him anything at all.