My brother is parked on the side of the road.
I drive past slowly.

My hands are steering my car.
His hands are at his sides.

We all have cars,
Little bubbles with air inside.

We drive back and forth like insects,
Moving body parts, breathing,

Our hearts keeping pace,
Our hands on our steering wheels.

I turn to look as I drive past slowly.
His hands are at his sides.

I know he would wave if he could.
I roll the window up, watch the road.

Michael Philips

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/long-term-care/