Seeing You

How withered, my father, you have become.
And changed colour as well.
Like one of those pot plants
On the window-sill

Neglected by the mother,
That the sun cruelly forces to wake to each new day
Out of its soily slumber
And take part in this domestic scene.

Have you grown roots into that chair of yours?
Or does it seem as good a place as any
To grow weary and frail?
Do they not say that familiarity breeds boredom and contempt?
Or is that the idea, then, to
Bore yourself to death?