|
You sit in your chair
by the window,
surrounded by pictures
of your former self,
(the you that lived, not
just was).
Your dry, paper-skinned
hands
tremble, fumbling
with a loose button
hanging from the red sweater
you've plucked threadbare.
Your eyes are dull and
vacant,
the ancient fire
grown cold, and you swallow
the names from the tip
of your tongue, the names
connected to faces you've
washed and fed and kissed,
and can't remember.
You can't remember yesterday,
yet you can recall
(when you were five, you
think)
that your mother once
swatted
your behind with a
wooden spoon because you
upset a pitcher of milk.
Do you wander, in your
mind,
from room to room,
searching for the familiar?
The way you wander here,
tripping alarms and
summoning nurses to
save you from yourself?
Or do you just stare
out the windows of your
soul,
plucking the remnants
of something you wove
long ago? |
