Perdido, perdido,
Perdido, perdido, perdido.
He makes his way down the hall
singing his favorite jazz tunes and
accompanying himself with well-timed
groans and the sound of his walker
striking the floor.

He never misses a beat.
He doesn’t have a bad voice and
he’s almost on key.
But one wonders,
does he still know what Perdido means?
It’s the theme of our days.

So much is perdido.
The ready smile,
The quick wit,
His musical ability—
Making a grand entrance at the Jazz Factory,
Pantomiming with his cane
as if he and his jazzy violin
were still a part of the scene.

All of it, perdido.
Lost, lost, lost.

—Elaine Parker Akin