I write poems
Because my mother died,
Compelled,
Like my father
Accepts the walker
Pressed on him
By the aides
At the home, who say
Get him to try it.
His eyesight shrinks
Like the end of a
Looney Tunes cartoon.
The old folks croon
He is so popular here
With everyone.
Like my husband with his
Easy chatter on the
Work Zoom,
The way he too
Blithely navigates the
Difficult ones.
Day Care Center.
Each small child
Demanding something of me,
Saying Read
This book now or
Pick me up.
My father held my mother up
In a bear hug
While she hung limp.
She was hollow
At the end of the phone when
She told me she was dying.
I feel her presence
With the soft antennae
That I strangely have.
I see her around
The corner of my eye,
Beside myself.
She is so nearly
Present. Even the way
She sometimes was:
Your brother was the smart one.
Would she love my poems
Or compete with them?
