Transition Pomes

Trying to transition from Miserable Pomes to Slightly More Humorous Pomes

TONIGHT

Tonight
when the dementia
sent you
into depression

I put you to bed and sat
on my balcony  
and drank,
looking at the stars.

Mary Chapin Carpenter sang
Quitting Time
and Grow Old
Along With Me.

I waited
to hear you breathe deep
I waited to know
you were asleep.

But then
you and your walker
came rattling back
and you wanted to talk.

You didn’t like the cold breeze
through the open door;
(the air that keeps me alive
the breeze that keeps me breathing)

So I closed the door
turned on the light
sat you at the table
gave you food.

We sat together
and reminisced;
our lighted room reflected
in the window.

But I could no longer breathe
or see the view.

Freshwater Fish

Today, in the dementia ward
someone was obsessing
about freshwater fish

and I thought
that’s all of you isn’t it?
Goldfish in your glass bowl:
alive but mainly silent. 

But then

there’s Frank,
who takes his pants off
in the dining room
and talks about golf.

There’s Laura
who speaks in tongues:
like a mantra;
like a lullaby.

There’s Robert
who rolls his walker
forward and back:
clicks bits of pipe together.

There’s Lily
manic, panicky,
who repeats herself
on a fifteen second loop.

There’s Mary
with her doll:
a snarling lioness
protecting her baby.

And then there’s John,
who tells me
“I punched someone
in the face today”
and when I ask why
smiles and says
“Well, he was in the fucking way!”

Not fresh water fish at all,
any of you.
Saltwater fish:
swimming in your own infinite ocean.